Raptor's Bane
by agryu
Summary: /AC/ As a new group of warriors in Acre threaten the very existence of his Brotherhood, the eagle of Masyaf must take flight once again.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This chapter's mostly just an introduction, actual story starts in the next one. Takes place pre-Assassin's Creed 1.

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**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 1

The poor district of Acre was exactly like that of any other city, Altair mused distractedly, weaving his way through the late afternoon crowd. Crumbling homes and strings of washing, hung with threadbare clothes, lined and crossed the dusty streets. From seemingly every corner, beggars cried out desperately to passersby, imploring for money and aid that none heeded. Their sorrow wrought pleadings fell on deaf ears, for how different was their situation from those they called to? _Everyone's_ family was sick and dying.

This was the Assassin's third day in the city, but he had yet to find any leads. The rafiq of the district had been less than helpful, acting detached and hesitant to face the issue at hand, likely due to shame. Altair did not blame him. The leader of the Bureau was chosen to protect the Assassins who entered his district, offering assistance varying from information gathering, to medical attention, to simple sanctuary. Failure to do such would merit a stain on their role as Keeper.

Al Mualim had personally sent Altair to this port city to find a group that had recently spawned from its slums, a new third party in the Holy War gripping their land. Their presence had been detected long ago, the Assassin informers of the citadel hearing whispers of a faction gathering strength, men and weapons around itself. However, their intentions had only come to light little than over a month ago.

The group of Acre remained faceless and without a name, a lack of identity similar to the ones they seemed determined to rid the world of: the Assassins. It was unsettling that they were incredibly adept at it—already three had ended up dead within the city's walls. True they had been little more than novices, newly fledged, but the loss was felt by the Brotherhood all the same.

Few even believed the Assassins to exist, most dismissing the group as simply fabled ghosts of death, bringing vengeance on swift wings—those who knew otherwise were bound by fear or respect of them. Little information of the men and their Creed was known outside the knowledge of the Brothers or the walls of their fortress. Thus was it so difficult to comprehend how an enemy had managed to hone both skill and force to not only find them, but end them as well.

Altair had wandered the streets of the district since his arrival, head bowed and ears pricked, sweeping the city in hopes of pinpointing a source of information. He had little help; even after the handful of Acre informants had been ordered into the crowds. Fear had gripped all but the hardiest, confining many to a narrow area, close to the Bureau where they might feel safe. If anything, he realized, their enemy had at least not yet found their base of operations. All the deaths had occurred in the roads or back alleys, but whether out of luck or by arrangement, they were still unsure.

It was because of this unsettling and unnatural situation that al Mualim had given him leave to wield his blade as he pleased, killing as he chose. Altair had accepted the permission with all seriousness, realizing that random deaths, especially of enemies as dangerous as these murderers of Acre, held consequences—a reason why the Brothers allowed themselves to be tools, wielded by their wise and trusted Master. It was a time-tested arrangement, and Altair worried that their enemy was so unpredictable that they were forced to abandon it.

The Assassin brushed past a city guard lazily going about his rounds, ignoring him as he attempted to track the breathed mention of the "murder of the scholar last week" he had managed to catch. The latest Brother felled had been written up as an unfortunate intellectual and had thus been carried through gossip as such. Altair found the source of the conversation in a rather ragged pair talking by a lichen-twined stone cross, towering man-high in the center of a small square.

Tugging a bit consciously at his hood, the white-robed man settled against a nearby pillar, arms folded and facing away from the two. He shut his eyes, focusing on the exchange of words behind him, all the while seeming as if he were simply resting or perhaps waiting for someone.

"That was the second killing this month wasn't it?" the younger man queried softly, leaning close to his friend as if fearing unfriendly ears.

"Third," the middle-aged one corrected, thoughtfully tugging at his tangled goatee. "Funny in't it? Someone must have it in for them smart types. Goes to show that knowing too much ain't good for you."

"Yes, but still, it's strange. Of all people to kill, why those who've never harmed anyone?" the first insisted. "I mean, if it were me, I would at least go after those scheming knights, always parading around like they own the place—"

Suddenly, the older man violently shushed the other after catching sight of a pair of approaching city guards, disappointingly ending the conversation. The two scuttled off hurriedly inside one of the dwellings to continue their exchange somewhere more private. Altair watched them go over his shoulder, frowning at the lack of new information. Tongues were tighter in this district, it seemed, fearful as they were of threats seen and unseen. This did not help him in the slightest.

He straightened and continued into the crowd again, noting the shrouded sky as dusk began to settle over the city. Merchants were closing shop and slowly joining the milling stream of people as they headed for their homes. Altair decided to follow suit, hesitant as he was to once again return to the shelter of the Bureau empty handed. As he thought of the prospect of rest though, he admittedly noticed the exhaustion from the fruitless search creeping through him. He was tired, and perhaps tomorrow would bring him more fortune.


	2. Chapter 2

**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 2

Altair set his pace for the middle district, dipping his head to avoid the gaze of a passing patrol and waving away a beggar that had run up to him with last minute pleas. All seemed normal, until he felt a slight chill at the base of his spine. He looked back impulsively but saw nothing. Slowly, he turned forwards again and continued on his way, but this time angling towards the rich district and away from the Bureau.

He had lost count of how many targets he had tailed himself, thus could easily tell when someone was following him. However, infuriatingly, his stalker was very good. Each time he turned, discreetly as it was, he saw little more than the shifting crowd behind him, recognizing no one as a possible threat. Yet the feeling remained.

Much like a ruffled eagle taking flight from a watched perch, he turned sharply into an alleyway to make for the rooftops. The sky beckoned him, promising safety, if not at least a chance to catch sight of his pursuer. Cloaked in the shade of the two buildings, he flicked his eyes upwards, momentarily dropping his guard to scan the wall for a handhold. His eyes passed over a high window ledge and a cloth-draped balcony before spotting one in his reach. He crouched swiftly; gaze fixed on a brick protruding from the dilapidated wall, and tensed for the leap.

A great weight slammed into his back.

Mid-jump, Altair had little defense against the enemy, and before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he had been slammed chest first into the wall. A rough hand gripped his sword arm, looking to subdue him before he could collect his bearings. At this point, the eagle awoke, his spirit screeching defiance.

There was no thought, only instinct. Altair spun left and wrenched his hand free, adrenaline pumping. His hidden blade bared, he stabbed blindly but viciously back towards his attacker. His enemy, however, drew fearlessly closer, pressing his advantage, and the point skated harmlessly off slick armor. The Assassin gathered for another strike, but felt a sudden pressure about his throat as he was grabbed from behind in a strangle hold. He thrashed and, though unable to see the other from his position, kicked backwards. He was met with luck as his boot connected with knee.

The attacker grunted and buckled under the blow but the strong-armed grip only tightened. Altair choked briefly, darkness flaring across his vision, and just barely managed to reach his short sword. Blood spurted from the long slash in the enemy's arm; he, howling as the Assassin forcefully cut himself free of the hold.

He whirled away from him in a flash of white, spinning around to finally face the enemy, blooded sword held before him protectively. He distractedly touched his aching throat, realizing he was panting slightly from the exertion. He caught the time to berate himself for not noticing the hostile approach, before flicking his dark gaze to the other in front of him.

The tall man stood with a solid grasp around the reddened, dripping sleeve about his forearm, trying to staunch the bleeding. Two things about the man startled Altair, first that he was alone—though he had admittedly lost some ground, surely they didn't expect to take him with a single warrior?—and second that the attacker was a common city guard, or at least clothed as one. He was dressed as most, clad in tunic and chain mail marked with the black cross of the Teutonic Order. The helmet half masked his face, but the Assassin could still feel his anger, the enraged, dangerous aura wrapping thickly around the man.

"Who are you?" Altair asked plainly, outwardly unfazed at the sudden assault. This question hung unanswered for a span, both of them knowing it need not be asked. He had searched for a lead and gotten one, though not one he had expected. His unwavering stare and question was ignored, instead met by a short bark of laughter.

"I'll have to admit, you're very good, Assassin," the guard stated, abruptly amused despite being at the mercy of the other's ready blade. He took a step toward Altair, who in turn took one away from him, warily keeping a safe distance. "Better than those others we got rid of a few days ago. But of course, we appreciate a challenge."

"You admit to it then?" Altair asked coldly, tightening his grip and shifting his stance slightly. The man was unnerving him; livid one moment then bemused the next. "I hope you understand that I'm not about to let the murderer of my brothers live."

The soldier scoffed, as if at bravado, despite Altair's dangerous glare and drawn weapon to back him up. He fearlessly began to pace around the white-robed man, the other turning to keep him in sight, he all the while swaggering and acting as if he was in control despite him dripping red life with each step. The Assassin was vaguely reminded of himself, calm and focused, centered by the Creed. But this man was nothing like him; his brash, thoroughly unsuccessful attack earlier had proven that.

Perhaps this group prided itself in its similarity to the Assassins, Altair realized suddenly. They certainly possessed similarities, hiding in plain sight and acting, killing covertly, yet not hiding the deed once it had been fulfilled. Its members, if this one was any representative, had the same focus and determination as they did. However, he rather stubbornly denied the possibility that their goal was as righteous as his Brothers', as guided as their own Creed.

A sudden movement of the enemy's hand caught the Assassin's gaze, and he narrowed his eyes, tense and ready to intercept an attack. But none came, and the guard simply swiped a discarded white rag off one of the crates lining the alley. Ignoring the watchful gaze on him, as well as the filth of the cloth, the other began to bandage his injury. Altair wondered if the man was simply trying to avoid looking at him, distracting himself from the situation. The slight tremble in the busily working fingers was enough to confirm his suspicion.

As he watched, still wary of a second assault, Altair noticed with some surprise that the other possessed no weapons. None visible anyway, he conceded, reminding himself with the comforting weight of his own Hidden Blade.

"Well? What are you waiting for, boy?" the soldier asked tightly as he finished the knot with his teeth, eyes still averted from the figure standing motionless in the quickly darkening alleyway.

What _was_ he waiting for? He should have killed him as soon as he had the advantage. This man was obviously not interested in answering questions, and failing to kill him would compromise the Brotherhood. Altair steeled his will, shaking himself free of the lingering doubt and unease. "I wonder if you are truly so eager to meet death," he murmured coldly, almost inaudibly, as he straightened and sheathed his short blade, releasing instead the one at his wrist.

The guard stood still, watching his approach impassively, what could be seen of his face a mask that rivaled Altair's own. However, as he drew closer, the arrogance slipped, fear leaking through his guard. The cornered man shuddered and took a step back, clenched fists rising as if in a feeble attempt to shield himself. Much as they tried to be like them, these street thugs would never reach the Assassins' level, he thought callously. Then he struck.

As for most kills, Altair aimed for the weak join of the neck to the shoulder, drawing right up against his victim and easily plunging the blade through chain mail, cloth and flesh. He seized the shoulder of the black-crossed tunic with his free hand as the body slackened, held up by little more than the blade impaling it. The guard's breath escaped with a wet gasp and he convulsively clamped onto the hand gripping his coat, pushing against it as if doing so would return life to his body.

Warm red guttered and flowed freely from the wound, slipping over metal and staining cloth. Altair moved to retract the knife, ready to support the body to keep the armor from banging against the stoned street and drawing attention.

It was here that the Assassin felt an abrupt pain through his right wrist, small but surgically invasive, striking deep into his forearm towards the elbow. He gave a barely strangled cry, more in alarm then pain, as he jerked away from the dying man who had made his final retaliation. A long needle glinted and fell from the guardsman's hand, slicked finely crimson from Altair's blood. He gripped his right gauntlet under which the weapon had passed, shaken by the precision of the blow. He touched the minute pinprick it had left, but knew it had given him much more than that.

Meanwhile, the soldier hit the street loudly, knocking off his own helmet and strewing his blood amongst the dust and stones. As the life dulled from his eyes, he gave a stolid, gurgling laugh and choked out, "A snake will bite when faced with death, Assassin. You'd best remember that."

Silence cloaked the side street once more as the echo of the final words quieted and was lost. Altair took a step away from the corpse, no longer seeing it and instead inwardly examining himself with tightly contained panic. The needle had doubtlessly been poisoned, but with what and at what amount he was unsure. His sight and thoughts were clear, he realized, as much as the night would allow, but he felt a chill settling in his core, trivial but unsettling.

Perhaps it was not a fatal dose, he reassured himself shakily, though a soldier arming himself with a non-lethal toxin as a last resort was incredibly unlikely. Altair knew he could do nothing about it in the alleyway, thus he set off towards his original destination, sensing more than feeling the sweat bead his brow and the wisp of poison flash through his system.

The last of the crowds were filtering off the street as if in curfew, though none such existed. Altair moved quickly, knowing his white robes stood out in the dark, easily reflecting light from fires burning dully through shuttered windows. He measured his pace, stepping swiftly but breathing shallowly, afraid that the poison would take him all the quicker with drastic movement. Altair focused on his steps, vision narrowing into a tunnel as he thought only of reaching the safety and aid that awaited him at the Bureau.

Only the eagle spurred him now, the only thing that pressed him forward and stopped him at his objective. The Assassin looked up at the sheer sandy wall that stood in his way, feeling a pounding headache resonating behind his eyes. He felt dizzy, conscious of the sweat collecting beneath his robes, and knew that he would never be able make climb to the entrance so easily as he often did, scaling from brick to window sill to roof without a second thought. Instead, he unsteadily turned towards the ladder he knew lay nestled at the northern edge, used by the Assassins who wished to enter without calling on undue attention from the market crowd.

Altair noticed how heavy his weapons felt as he dragged himself up the rungs, abruptly wishing to discard the gold-hilted sword and curved short blade as if they were no longer extensions of him. He shook his head slightly at the foolish thought, dismissing it as machinations of his fevered mind. Thank Allah it had not been strong enough to keep him away from his brothers.

A gentle light flickered through the leaf-covered trellis on the roof, barely noticeable even up close. Altair couldn't keep a small, albeit strained smile from his face as the quiet voices of a couple of his comrades wafted up from the room below, mingling with the smoke of the incense the rafiq favored. Here was a piece of home, and he had never been so relieved to finally reach it.

Feeling a trembling beginning in his limbs, the Master Assassin lowered himself into a crouch for the short drop through the hole in the roof but gasped out loud as he was suddenly hit with a roiling wave of heat and vertigo, of thirst, chill and pain. His sight tilted and veered brutally, and though he desperately reached a hand out to steady himself, the next thing he knew, he had fallen.

Altair hit the floor of the Bureau gracelessly, his sword scabbard knocking loudly against the stones as he only just managed to catch himself on his splayed hands. Several of the throwing knives at his shoulder dislodged at the harsh landing, clattering away and coming to rest amongst the pillows at the far corner. He stayed in the crouch, head bowed and breathing harsh, as he tried to stay conscious despite the assault on his mind and senses.

He heard cries of alarm and surprise through the fog, only really hearing the grating of his dry breath in his throat. He lifted fever-brightened eyes to the figures approaching him, seeing little more than color and shape in the low lighting, the white of a fellow Assassin foremost in his vision. He heard words of concern, probing questions, his name, but little made sense to him in his lightheaded state.

Here, passing time began to blur, and he realized he could only recall brief flashes of events. He sensed strong arms carrying him into the room, heard the rafiq's shouted orders for medicine and blankets and water, felt his brothers holding him desperately as he thrashed violently in the poison's grip. He remembered, with some detachment, the pain and the screams. His.

Darkness came next and Altair stood in it, confused. The incidents had vanished as quickly as a candle flame in a wind; though how long had actually passed since his consciousness, he had no idea. Perhaps it had been minutes, hours, even days. Perhaps, even an eternity. Perhaps he was dead. However, the eagle in him, of him, spoke otherwise. He could still feel its presence, perched and watchful, but as vibrant as always. It gave a lone cry in the dark, calling him back to the world of the living. Back in Acre, back in the Assassins' Bureau, Altair opened his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 3

Filtered sunlight shone onto the young Assassin's face through the latticed wood above him and he blinked, suddenly missing the shade of his hood that was currently bunched down around his neck. Slowly, he pushed himself up against the cushions he had been laying against, noticing with great relief that he felt well and whole, with only a barely noticeable tightness in his chest as remnant of the toxin's assault. Steadying himself on his elbows, he noticed his weapons lined up neatly next to him, save the hidden blade that his brothers had graciously left with him. They knew no other was allowed to touch it.

Altair relaxed and shut his eyes, relishing in the return of his senses, listening to the early morning market-goers outside the walls of the Bureau. At his shift in position, he heard the wooden door to the inner room open, and he sensed the approach of the rafiq.

"You really have the devil's luck, don't you, Altair?"

He opened his eyes and turned his head calmly towards the voice. The black-cloaked rafiq was watching him from the doorway, a gentle smile visible under his short, dark beard. Altair started to speak, felt a slight constriction in his throat and instead settled for nodding in acknowledgement. He consciously touched his hand to his neck and cleared it uncomfortably. An aftereffect of the poison he assumed.

"Arsenic," the Keeper supplied, answering the younger Brother's unspoken question and moving to sit on one of the larger pillows by his side. "Exactly the same used on the other Assassins we lost, but theirs were given orally after they had been knocked unconscious. Yours was a much lower dose thankfully, but it was enough that we nearly lost you to a coma. You've been sleeping for almost a week now."

Altair remained silent, then, speaking slowly to ensure the clarity of his voice, he said softly, "I owe you my life, rafiq." He flicked his gaze uncertainly to the man's face then away again. "Thank you."

A week. So much time lost, never to be recovered, and his mission was nowhere near completion. Maybe even jeopardized by now. The Master Assassin tepidly focused on the elder one by his side; saw he was watching him patiently, waiting for him to speak. For his report, he realized. He needed to deliver the long overdue recollection of his findings and… encounters that had happened the day that ended with his collapse.

Altair took a breath and began to tell of his run-in with the clan member, carefully recounting the enemy's skill level and seemingly double persona, his countenance and odd behavior. He spoke briefly of the poisoning, words stayed by his disgust towards the cowardly method, as well as by his shame at falling to it so easily. The rafiq was thoughtfully quiet throughout his monologue, his face emotionless, and only nodded slowly upon his conclusion.

"We may have underestimated this group a little," the older man said with a tinge of regret, standing and folding his arms into his black coat. "I have sent word of your attack to the Master and he agrees that several more Assassins are needed to take them—they should be arriving here within a couple of days. Also…" the rafiq trailed off and looked away towards the entrance of the Bureau. "Also, al Mualim has ordered you back to Masyaf."

The young Assassin's head shot up and he looked at the Keeper with some alarm. "But my mission-?" he started, hit with sudden apprehension to the disgrace of returning to the headquarters with his mission unfulfilled. He would never hear the end of it from his brothers. The rafiq held up a hand to stop his objection. "This is for your own safety," he said sternly, giving Altair a warning look as he attempted to speak again. "The arsenic can have a lasting effect on your breathing, your endurance might not be as high as it was before the attack. You'll need several months before you fully recover."

Altair caught himself and, carefully blanking his expression once more, nodded obediently. He sighed inwardly, defeated, as the rafiq stood up and returned to his desk. He should have expected this. An eagle with clipped wings was of no use to al Mualim, simple as that. He should consider himself lucky for not being punished for his failure, and instead given time to recuperate.

Despite his own attempts to placate himself, Altair felt a sudden need to leave the Bureau, to run, to move—the frustration of a bird in a cage. Glancing at the bowed head of the rafiq intent on his work, he reached for his weapons, securing them upon himself before rising. He lifted his hood and took several quiet breaths, feeling the restriction of his lungs but knowing, with some stubbornness, that it would slow him little. It would take more than a coward's poison to confine him.

The Assassin took off in a burst, clearing the entrance of the Bureau in two leaps, not noticing the disapproving shake of the Keeper's head as he listened to him leave. He ran across the rooftops in a flurry of white robes, stretching his long-unused limbs, climbing and leaping gaps with an empty mind, directionless. All he felt was the rush of wind as he flew, running as if to leave his torments behind. He finally came to a stop in the shade of a terrace, well shielded from prying eyes by its wood pillars and the ragged white cloth draped between them. Altair panted, feeling and accepting the unfamiliar gasp in his throat. This was the price of his past carelessness.

He looked down at the alleyway under him, thinking distractedly that this was a good vantage point to watch those below without being seen. Altair pushed away the fluttering curtain with some annoyance, irritated as the torn and beaten fabric obscured his view. It was a rather sad sight, the material so old and weathered that pieces seemed ready to tear off at the slightest wind. Abruptly, a flash of recognition hit him as he stared at it, the texture of the dirty white bringing to mind a similar cloth, a scrap he had seen atop a crate, only to be picked up and used as a bandage…

Hackles rising now at the memory, the robed man tore the drape out of the way to look fully down at the side street and finally recognized it as the scene of his attack. The body had long been cleared, but he could still remember the collection of crates and barrels systematically stacked at the wall, and could still see the dried puddle of blood where his enemy had lain, now little more than a large smudge on the stones.

Altair turned his attention to the abandoned balcony upon which he stood, noting it was large enough to hide three or so men from unfriendly eyes. Perhaps men who had wanted to observe an attack, one planted and timed to occur exactly where they could see their target. …And follow him after it had come to a close.

The Assassin's breath hitched in his throat. Oh Allah… he had led them straight to the Bureau.

Altair had taken off at a run again even before his mind had formed coherent thought. The enemy clan had known the location of their base for about a week now, he analyzed swiftly. More than enough time to gather their force and storm the building. That they had waited this long already was a miracle—had their roles been reversed, al Mualim would have deployed the Assassins within a few hours of the discovery. They were lucky then that these snakes were not as quick as they.

He dodged an archer sentry on duty, ignoring his enraged demands for him to get off the roof, eyes instead sweeping the area for a group of armed guards moving towards the middle district, any sign of the possible attack. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but this did not comfort him in the slightest. The air passing through his lungs felt heavy, more hampering than rejuvenating, but the Assassin thought little of it, instead focusing on his objective with a single-minded determination.

The young Assassin slowed down as he reached the base of the dome atop the Bureau, scaling it with slight difficulty, and coming to a halt on the scaffolding. Perched there, he stilled his body and instead strained his senses, listening, watching, scenting, but no sign of danger came. Unsettled, he straightened standing at his full height for another look.

Only then did he see it, a suspicious group of six men was gathered no more than two streets away, sheltered by a half-demolished building that was little more ragged stone walls sticking up like broken teeth. Dark eyes narrowed as Altair studied them, seeing no weapons on or around the faction who seemed in deep discussion. Instead, all he could see was a neat stack of wax-tightened barrels, carrying to him a faint whiff of oil—perhaps for kindling and torches. They planned a night attack, no doubt.

Shaking his head slightly, he paused, seriously considering approaching and killing them all where they stood. He thought against it however, reminding himself that it was likely there were more, similar groups gathered elsewhere. It would be safer to root all of them out first before striking. For that, he would need help.

He glanced briefly down, before leaping from the ledge, past the trellis of the Bureau entrance, to land in a gentle crouch by the fountain. He was greeted by the scrape of steel on scabbard and glanced up past his hood to find the rafiq before him, blade drawn and clearly startled to see him—he had not expected him to return so soon, if at all. The Master Assassin straightened slowly as the sword was lowered to its wielder's side.

"Altair?" the elder intoned blankly, likely having dismissed the Assassin to have run off to brood alone or perhaps even head off with unnatural obedience to Masyaf. The addressed man hesitated, quite unlike him, before saying flatly, "They are planning an attack on the Bureau. Perhaps tonight."

The rafiq looked at him incredulously as this fact settled in, knowing he could only be referring to one thing. He did not question the validity of the younger one's claim, merely assessed it, and accepted it as the truth. Altair stood motionless; gaze steady as if awaiting judgment, expecting a sharp word at the very least, or perhaps even a blade to his throat for compromising the Brotherhood. However, neither came as the equally silent Keeper turned abruptly, calling into the inner Bureau.

Two figures appeared at the doorway in response to his summons, one a white-robed master and the other still bearing the gray of a novice. The younger one he had never met, but Altair recognized the former to be Malik, a brother he had often trained with when they were still initiates. However, upon their graduation of sorts, they had seen little of each other, al Mualim once commenting lightly that he had seen a need to separate the pair of troublemakers. Their eyes met and they exchanged a short nod, the happiness of their reunion dampened by the situation.

The two brothers looked on as the rafiq rounded his attention on Altair again. "How many did you see?" he asked, his eyes hard, warning him that he would take no hesitancy or nonsense. In this gaze, Altair was reminded rather vaguely of their master.

"Six men," he responded briskly, bringing to mind the brief glance he had managed to get of the soldiers. "Situated not far from here, to the east of the market. They were not outwardly armed, much like the member I encountered before, and they had barrels of oil with them. I expect the presence of at least two other such groups, though I have not been able to locate them yet."

The rafiq nodded and turned to the novice Altair did not recognize. "Isam, send a pigeon to Masyaf and alert them to the enemy's intention. We wouldn't want our brothers to fall into a trap if we fail here." The boy turned and disappeared into the Bureau obediently. "As for you two, scout out the surroundings and find the rest of those murderous serpents. I'm giving you five minutes to locate all of them, and at my signal, you are to attack them together, each to one group at a time. Leave none of them alive."

Altair bowed deeply, a hand to his chest in the Assassins' salute before leaving the shelter of the safe house at a run, Malik close behind him. He stood at the lip of the entrance; head swiveling as he checked to make sure the enemy wasn't staging their attack now. There was a heaviness in his chest as he thought this. If the four of them died here, it would be his fault.

A hand touched his shoulder, little more than a brush to catch his attention, and he turned to see Malik looking off towards the group Altair had spotted earlier. "The rafiq does not blame you, you know," he said quietly, avoiding his eyes. "You should not blame yourself either."

There was a slight smile now, just visible behind the edge of Malik's hood. Altair returned it in kind, offering a nod in response. Then without another word, they took off simultaneously, running in opposite directions in search of their prey, minds set again to their oft-practiced rivalry, their contest of accomplishing their task before the other.

The two systematically swept the area, leaping from rooftop to scaffolding and back as they searched several streets in all directions, circling a large circumference around the Bureau. Altair carefully kept the far-off, barely visible white form of Malik in sight, noting his pause each time he found another group. He did the same, committing the coordinates to memory. Each cluster of soldiers he came upon seemed hard at work preparing torches and handing out small weapons, daggers and near-invisible needles bearing an abnormal sheen. Likely poison-dipped weapons much like the one he had fallen to. His lip lifted in a slight snarl each time he saw the craven arsenal.

Finally, just before the time limit was up, the two met again on the roof of the safe house. They confirmed the presence of five groups and divided them between themselves, leaving the farthest one for last.

"Keep your distance from them, brother," Altair said a bit impulsively, unnecessarily as they prepared to separate. "They seem only trained in close combat. Don't give them a chance to—"

"I _know_, Altair," Malik said with a small smirk. "I am not a novice like you."

Altair rolled his eyes, a concealed smile at his lips. Again silent, the brothers parted once again and moving to position themselves at their first groups.

The Master Assassin perched upon a corner of the wrecked building shielding the soldiers, glowering unseen from above as he watched them ready themselves. He slowly released his Hidden Blade and threw a glance towards the Bureau. From an arched window in the dome, a flock of three pigeons appeared and winged towards Masyaf, released from the coop by the novice Isam. The signal.

Altair leaped, blade hungry for blood. He landed in the midst of the group, feet planted against the shoulders of one of the men, knife buried in his neck. The strangled scream froze everyone else in their actions, and the Assassin took the opportunity to draw his saber, slashing widely in the enclosed space and bringing down two with slit throats.

He saw the glint of silver, wary of it now, and deftly cut off the hand holding the needle, stopping it before it could stab into his back. Another yell as blood pooled thickly at their feet, mixing with the heavy dirt and turning it to mud. He kicked the now one-handed thug into the stack of barrels against the wall, the solid wood and oil crushing him beneath their weight.

The white-robed man turned to see the last one attempt to flee, stumbling over his fallen comrades towards the exit. The coward was killed in a flash of metal and he collapsed, the thrown knife through the center of his back. Altair swept the room with a quick glance before swiftly wiping and sheathing his sword. He cleared the wall with a running leap, hurrying for the second faction before they discovered the attack.

The second concealed group also fell with hardly a fight, and the young Assassin paused for a short repose, breath grating through his throat. He was tired, he realized with some frustration. There was still one group that remained, and he was loath to let Malik get to them first. Shaking his head to clear it, he climbed the street wall, feeling his fingers slip unnaturally on the stone and taking longer than usual as he attempted to steady himself. He pushed on relentlessly nevertheless, stopping atop the building to collect his strength.

It was there that, for a second time that day, a sight on the horizon stole his breath and stilled his heart. It was high afternoon, and the roof of the Bureau was wreathed in flames.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: To all my readers, reviewers and watchers, thank you very much. Your words always inspire me to continue.

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**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 4

All pain and exhaustion was forgotten as Altair flew across the skyline of Acre, the image of the smoke and the fire soldered across his vision and memory. He could imagine the trellis, the lattice door that so many Assassins had sought for sanctuary, twisting and burning into ash, the vines wrought around it dying slowly. More so than the entrance, he feared for the small life of the brotherhood it shielded, could not bear the thought of his brothers and their records shattering into dust.

The eagle's eyes flashed as he caught sight of figures around the orange-swathed building. They would die. All of them. So he swore upon the Creed, all of them would die.

Malik caught up with him a few streets away from the Bureau, expression carefully blanked, but turmoil visible in his eyes. "It seems we have both lost this game, brother," he said grimly, slowing his pace to match Altair's somewhat strained one. The Master Assassin did not reply.

The two Assassins stayed close this time, moving as one towards the seven soldiers destroying their home. Three were archers, clutching bows and arrows, simply watching the flames consume the wood with dark pleasure. The other four were dressed as guards, throwing the now empty oil barrels against the weakening framework, attempting to rend it apart all the quicker. The steady roar of the flames, hungrily devouring both the timber and the screams of the fleeing crowd below, was abruptly shattered by a great crackling as the entrance collapsed.

A plume of smoke rose unexpectedly, startling the soldiers as they were wrapped in the sudden, choking black cloud. Altair smiled with cold satisfaction at their panic. By some stroke of luck or fate, the fountain below had broken, dousing the flame before it could reach the inner rooms and throwing ashes into the air with the evaporating water.

In the resulting confusion, Malik and Altair leaped, becoming mere smudges of white in the soot-strangled air. The latter drew back his left fist and drove both knuckle and blade into the spine of the nearest archer with a gratifying crunch. To his right, his brother had already dispatched one of the soldiers in a spray of red, his curved knife buried deep in the enemy's neck.

The two straightened, freeing their blades from the corpses as the wind began to clear away the smoke. The guards finally saw the presence of the twin ghosts among them and scrambled for their weapons. Altair was mildly impressed that none attempted to run—after all, it must have been shocking to see two comrades dead in the blink of an eye. His thought was cut short as he and Malik were forced into motion again, dodging loosed arrows.

The young Assassin charged towards the next archer, noting two of the guards converging on him from his peripheral vision. He leaned fluidly to the right to dodge the second shaft aimed at him, not breaking his momentum until his wrist blade found its target in the enemy's heart. Blood spattered his robes, but he took no notice, already spinning to meet the other two soldiers.

Altair was jerked violently to a halt mid-turn and, startled, he realized that the dying man had seized his left arm, keeping the hidden blade sheathed carefully away in his own chest. The guards were upon him before he could free himself, one driving him into the ground with sheer force and bulk. His already shaky breath left him, forced from his lungs at the impact, and his left arm twisted painfully as the archer fell with him.

He raised his right arm desperately as the narrow dagger lanced towards his face, catching the wrist that held it against his leather gauntlet. The blade stopped just short of grazing his skin. The two of them locked, straining against the other's arm in a stalemate of strength, Altair all the while attempting to free his wrenched left arm from the combined grip of the fallen archer and the man above him. He gasped silently from the exertion, scenting the garlic-like waft from the arsenic he knew coated the knife.

Over the edge of his hood, he caught the looming shadow of the other soldier who had approached him, the man smirking cruelly as he reached down to pull Altair's right arm out of the way. Abruptly, a sharp rush of wind cut the air, quiet enough to be overlooked by those unfamiliar with it, and the standing guard gave a cry of pain, clutching the short knife now protruding from his collarbone. Malik came into view shortly after the dagger, kicking the staggered man off the roof with a deft side shot.

The weight on Altair's shoulders lifted as the remaining guard jumped away, dodging the older Assassin's saber slash. Altair rolled upright unsteadily, chest heaving, and stayed in a crouch in Malik's protective shadow as he evened his breath. He swiftly checked his hidden blade for damage, fearing it had been broken in his awkward fall. The mechanism clicked into place comfortably though, reassuring him, and he slowly gained his feet, eyes flicking gratefully to his brother before surveying the six bodies that littered the Bureau roof and nearby side streets.

"You would be wise to surrender," Malik said venomously, lifting his gold-hilted sword to point at the seventh guard, now backed up against the roof dome. Altair drew his own long sword and circled a few steps to the right, flanking the man to cut off any escape. There was relative quiet now, the streets empty of the fearful market goers and the fire reduced to dying embers.

"As would you," the guard smirked back, meeting the Assassin's haughtiness coolly. "Yet you refuse to. We _will_ finish you all in the end." He raised his seemingly empty hands in surrender, but as he did so, Altair caught a faint glimmer between the man's fingers. He tensed, recognizing the barely noticeable shine of ten needles clutched against the mail-clad palms. The eagle in him screeched a warning as the soldier flicked his wrists, the deadly lances leaving his hands in a glimmer of movement.

The Master Assassin dove, snatching a handful of Malik's robes as he did so, and dragged both of them down and backwards in an attempt to dodge the lethal volley. Altair hit the roof for a second time, rolling to soften the collision, and heard his brother's sharp gasp of surprise at being pulled with him. Rather unexpectedly, the two plummeted deeper, falling before the toxin needles could touch them, the now gaping entrance of the Bureau swallowing them easily. They landed against the wet, blackened wood scattered across the outer room's floor in a splintering clatter.

Altair snarled quietly against the pain as the jagged end of a piece of broken timber tore through the robes at his side, drawing blood. He forced himself to his feet, looking upwards and hearing the retreating footsteps as the enemy fled. He gauged the direction, guessing the soldier was heading towards the seaside ports.

By his side, Malik muttered a curse at him, standing and nursing his slightly burned hand from where he had broken open a still smoldering piece of wood. "A warning would be welcome next time, brother," he said snappishly, picking his way towards the shattered, sputtering fountain to run his left hand under the cool water. Altair ignored him, brushing the cinders from his robes and examining the mild abrasion he had taken from the fall.

A gentle creak announced the opening of the door to the inner Bureau, and Isam's worried face peered through the gap. The Assassin initiate gestured the two inside, looking apprehensively at the wide rectangle of open sky now exposing half of their safe house. As Altair followed Malik into their remaining slice of sanctuary, he heard far-off calls and approaching steps weighed down by armor. The real knights Teutonic had finally caught word of the fire and, as always, came rushing to the scene of chaos with all pomp, hours overdue.

The wood door closed out the sounds of their advance sharply and the Assassins converged in front of the rafiq's desk, trailing ash-blackened water and flecks of enemy blood. Altair blinked in the semi-darkness, noticing that all the Bureau's windows had been shuttered for safety, or perhaps to hide from the local guard's investigators. To compensate, candles burned lowly from the corners of the room, giving off the image of twilight despite the early hour.

"You can never seem to enter my Bureau quietly, can you?" the rafiq asked a bit resignedly as he offered the two a wry smile, in a light mood despite the fact that half of his property had just been defaced. "You both did well, either way. I don't think we need expect a second attack for at least another few weeks. For now, both of you get something to eat and tend to your wounds. You've earned a rest." The two Assassins bowed and retreated to the back of the Bureau, the soft cushions by the low corner table beckoning.

"Altair."

He turned at his name, pausing halfway across the room. "Yes, rafiq?"

"This changes nothing," the older man stated somberly, eying Altair over the desk. "You are still to return to headquarters by tomorrow before this conspiracy escalates any further. Al Mualim's orders cannot be ignored."

Altair frowned, a shadow passing his brow, but made no comment and simply nodded his assent. He joined Malik and Isam at the back and sat down, watching the novice fussing with the Bureau's medicinal kit, eager to aid his elder brothers. He settled against the pillows piled against the wall, watching his fellow Assassins talk of the fight that day but offering no input.

Malik was particularly tolerant of the novice, answering his probing questions about the enemy long past the point Altair would have found them wearying. Isam reminded the older Assassin of Kadar perhaps, his blood brother being a novice of the same age and same insufferable tongue. Both initiates had yet to learn of the weight of the blood spilled in every battle.

"It doesn't suit you to brood, Altair," Malik commented lightly a few hours into the afternoon, leaning an elbow on the table between them. Altair looked up a bit sharply, only now noticing that he had been staring into space for quite some time. His brother fixed him with a worried eye, perhaps wondering if he was still berating himself over the recent events. Sardonic as the elder of the two Assassins was, though, his form of comfort was still accompanied by cynicism. "If only you thought this carefully about your actions in a fight—maybe then you wouldn't be such a novice."

"Yes, perhaps I should leave the thinking to you," Altair responded drily, quietly appreciating the concern. "After all, that's apparently all _you're_ good for." The young Assassin dodged the piece of bread lobbed half-heartedly at his face, instead catching it and taking a bite, a small smirk finally playing at his lips. Few others could coax such a drop of guard from him, and he was admittedly grateful for the reprieve.

Here, the Bureau lapsed into a gentle silence, the stretching hours seemingly slowed by the artificial lighting. Somewhere between night and dusk, Altair drifted into sleep, surrounded by his brothers and, for now, safety and peace.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Just for any of you who read Chapter 4 soon after I posted it, I added a little to the last few paragraphs since they seemed lacking upon re-reading.

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**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 5

The night passed empty of commotion and dreams, earning Altair a more fitful sleep than he had had in a long time. Morning woke him slowly, shifting his slightly cramped body from his slumped position against the wall and cushions. Before he was even fully awake, his senses came alive, and he caught the sound of a murmured discussion by the Bureau entrance.

Cracking open a dark eye, he saw Malik leaning on the rafiq's desk, deep in conversation with the Assassin elder, both of them lit by the faintly blue light of early dawn. Or perhaps it was his eagle's vision; he was unsure in this pseudo-aware state. The young Assassin closed his eyes again, honing in on their words more out of habit than curiosity, and guessed that they were discussing their next move.

"The enemy knows too much about us. Of all things, I'm surprised that their spy didn't tell them about the location of the Bureau. They had no need to tail Altair if they had a man on the inside." The rafiq's tone was slightly agitated, the man openly concerned with the enemy infiltration. Though Acre's Keeper was trustworthy, protecting each Assassin like a son, he had a tendency to grow edgy under tension.

"Yes, but perhaps they were trying to be discreet. If their informant really is one of ours, they knew we would have been able to tell right away if they attacked our base without provocation." In contrast, Malik's voice was calm and clear, he, unlike the other, being the type to face pressure head-on. He could make a fine rafiq some day, Altair thought approvingly.

"Perhaps," the Keeper echoed with a measure of uncertainty, shuffling the papers on his desk absently. Altair heard Malik shift, watching the other man pace as he continued more confidently, "But it's more likely that the spy is not of the Brotherhood, one of those who do not know the Bureau's exact location. The enemy group probably has more access to them, our outside informants—we have connections with several, all with their own lives and jobs, but brothers nonetheless."

"Then I will go investigate them," the Assassin said formally, taking the piece of information as an order. He was given leave with a wave of the rafiq's hand and Altair heard him approach the corner table to collect his weapons. The younger Assassin finally opened his eyes and watched his brother ready himself, motionless in his observations. Malik seemed to ignore his wakefulness at first, but Altair was slightly taken aback when the other flicked his attention towards him, meeting his gaze pointedly. Gray eyes focused on the door then back to him, a silent but clear message for him to follow.

Malik swept from the room mutely in a flutter of robes, leaving the Master Assassin wondering why he had not simply asked him to come. Shaking his head a bit, Altair drew a yawning breath, adjusting to his still-damaged lungs with dull irritation and climbing to his feet. The Bureau leader looked over at him as he picked up the small saddlebag he had prepared the night before and slung it over his shoulder, rather begrudgingly equipping himself for the return trip.

"Safety and peace on your travels, Altair," the Keeper said quietly as the Assassin left, receiving a dipped bow in return, but not a word. The early morning air hit him coolly, yet untainted by the sun, still carefully cloaked as it was with the horizon. He noticed the newly cleaned floor of the outer room, once again as inconspicuous as a small, open courtyard could be, likely the work of the earlier-rising brothers. The broken fountain was still bent and cracked sadly though, but the crooked flow of water had been carefully stoppered until repairs could be obtained.

Altair wisely avoided using the crumpled structure as a foothold, instead leaping and pulling himself out of the Bureau by the narrow doorframe. Almost immediately, he caught sight of Malik waiting for him atop an adjacent building, quite alone but evidently searching the rooftops for someone. He joined him swiftly, asking his questions with a rather baleful gaze for being left in the dark.

"I have a favor to ask, brother," Malik answered his unspoken inquiry hesitantly, catching the tinge of annoyance in Altair's eyes. "It… it is about Isam." The younger Assassin nearly sighed in exasperation, knowing of his brother's soft spot for the novices. He gestured for him to continue though, already guessing at the request that was coming.

"I wasn't able to oppose the rafiq's decision earlier, but I worry about his choice in sending him out at this time. He _is_ only a boy, and though we crippled the enemy yesterday, that is no reason to believe that we are completely safe—"

"And you would have me go babysit," Altair stated evenly, his tone surprisingly calm despite his inner impatience. He let out a short breath, adjusting his pack as he thought this over. "You know I have orders, just as you do, Malik. I am not free to simply do as I please."

"I know that. But your commands are not as binding as mine," Malik retorted, a small grin showing over his short goatee. "You were ordered to leave for Masyaf today, though not at any particular time." The older Assassin surveyed Altair's notoriously blank expression, slyly gauging his next words as carefully as he would a counterattack in a sword duel. "Please, Altair, I am only asking you to check on him. I'm sure a self-proclaimed Master Assassin such as yourself would have no trouble doing that."

Altair knew Malik was getting desperate if he resorted to flattery like this, for once avoiding calling him a novice. (Though one could not really call it flattery given the stress he had put on the "self-proclaimed" portion.) Reluctantly, the Assassin gave, promising to find Isam before he left on his return journey and watch him just long enough for the initiate to pass through the dangerous ports unscathed.

Appeased, Malik pointed him in the appropriate direction quite unnecessarily; perhaps in an attempt to balance the compliments he had had to resort to earlier. Altair, muttering a bit under his breath at having caved so easily, ignored the childish treatment and stowed his bag securely in a sheltered window of the Bureau's dome before setting his pace for the eastern-middle district.

Rooftops slipped smoothly out from under him as he ran towards the docks, shading his eyes from the rising sun before him with the peak of his hood. The ocean glittered as a steel gray band ahead, just visible over the tall walls that enclosed the shipping ports. The rafiq had sent Isam there to check with a contact, a boat master who possible knew something about the group that they suspected was hiding their headquarters somewhere in that area. Altair honestly doubted there would be any danger to the novice, but he _had_ promised Malik.

He leaped lightly down into the streets to join the crowd entering the busy dockside area, passing through the arched gate without incident. As he roamed the warehouses, searching for the young Assassin initiate, his heart nearly leaped into his throat when he felt arms latch onto the robes at his back. His short sword was drawn before he could think, he lashing backwards fiercely with the memory of his attack still fresh on his mind and pride. However, as he turned, he caught the acrid stench of wine and alcohol and realized, almost too late, that the one behind him was a mere drunkard, likely delirious from the bottle.

Altair stayed his blade just in time, the ragged man blinking rather stupidly at the sharp sword inches from his face. A few porters and passersby were staring, startled into stillness by the sudden show of aggression. Scowling in annoyance, both at the man and at his own high-strung nerves, the Assassin sheathed his weapon and roughly pushed past, having no respect for those who so willingly saturated themselves into half-madness.

The small encounter had drawn unwanted attention, so the Assassin bowed his head, shadowing his face from the crowd and walked swiftly away from the scene. He climbed to the rooftops as soon as he was able, alighting somewhere he could observe his surroundings unmolested. Allah, this was more trouble than it was worth.

Luckily, he managed to catch sight of Isam at this point, ready as he was to leave and simply lie to Malik later. Altair straightened and began to follow the novice from above, the young one's gray hood standing out like a beacon in the throng. He was unsure of what the extent of his supposed babysitting was, thus he simply checked the area, making sure no guard was watching Isam with undue attention, or that no one was tailing him.

As he did so, he was slightly surprised when he saw the novice pause, looking over his shoulder nervously as if he felt eyes on him. He had sensed Altair perhaps, but could not pinpoint him. The Assassin settled on his haunches on the edge of the roof, mildly impressed, not having expected one so young to be able to detect him. But, as he watched the initiate's growing agitation, he knew there was something else wrong.

Isam broke into a sudden run, fleeing from something Altair could not see. Was he trying to call attention on purpose? The Assassin thought, aghast, watching the novice almost slam into a patrol of Teutonic knights in his flight. Though he dodged in time, the damage had been done as one of the soldiers recognized the customary robes of the brotherhood. The familiar cry was raised, the single word enough to send innocents scattering and guards swarming in from all directions.

Shaking his head in disbelief, the white-hooded man above took wing after the fleeing novice, casting an eye over the chasing horde that only seemed to grow as they progressed. Isam followed his training well enough despite his previous error, dodging through the bystanders as he attempted to slip away from his pursuers. Altair simply watched, ready to intervene only if the boy was about to get himself killed. The novice was responsible for his own actions. He had brought this upon himself.

At this thought, the Assassin pondered Isam's strange behavior earlier. Why _had_ he acted so suspiciously, practically setting off the alarm personally? Could it have been from the feeling of being watched by Altair, or had he recognized someone else as a threat?

This question had to remain unanswered for now as the Master Assassin watched Isam sufficiently corner himself in an alleyway between two high-windowed warehouses, the street sealed off at the opposite end by an imposing wall of crates. The novice skidded to a halt when he saw the blocked exit, changing directions awkwardly on his heel in an attempt to leave the enclosed area before the knights caught up. Altair bit back an exasperated sigh as Isam tripped, twisting his ankle in his panic, and hit the street in a cloud of dust.

The novice regained his footing with difficulty, ready to bolt again had not the enemy soldiers rounded the corner. He froze, backing away from the dozen or so guards, most of whom were bored from their rounds and eager for a little fun.

The Assassin stood above them, silent and unnoticed, tilting his head slightly as he measured the distance to the ground. It was a bit higher than he would have liked, but he felt a sudden appearance would frighten off some of the guards, guessing most were simply killing time. It would make it all the easier for him. Finally, still without a sound, Altair stepped calmly off the roof.

For many of the guards, their eyes fixed only on the cornered boy in front of them, it would be as if a ghost had appeared. The Master Assassin dropped straight down, landing lightly in a half crouch, neatly separating the guards from his younger brother. The first soldier was dead before he could focus on the white blur that had obscured his vision, dropping to the wooden dock with a noisy clatter and a scattering of red.

Someone cried out in shock and Altair stepped back, catching the impulsive swing of another guard as he attempted wildly to defend himself. He flicked his saber, turning away the other's sword, and plunged it into and through the black-crossed chest plate. Another body fell and blood began to soak into the planks below, darkening it. The Assassin stood his ground, red-stained blade before him and left arm held protectively out in front of Isam, an eagle hooding its wings over its brood.

A few soldiers fled, as he had expected, hastily turning a blind eye to the phantom that had appeared and killed two of their own, deciding to return to their posts where it was safe. Altair swept an eye over the five that remained, only three of whom looked truly angry enough to be of any threat. He began to back away from them, crowding Isam and forcing the novice towards the wall of crates.

"Leave these to me," he said brusquely, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the pale-faced boy. "Just stay still and keep out of my way." With that, he charged forward in a burst, startling the enemy as he leaped into their midst, slashing his saber in a threatening arc. He forced them back the way they had come, missing them narrowly enough to alarm them, encouraging them to run.

This would have continued had not one of the soldiers gotten close to him, dodging the saber strike and peering past the Assassin's hood, his eyes fixed upon his face as if out of curiosity. Altair looked towards him in confusion, feeling a chill foreboding mount as their gazes locked. He abruptly leapt away; hackles raised and eyes narrowing dangerously as he recognized the snake, the seventh man who had eluded him and Malik the previous day.

The air stilled with the tension, the alley quieting now with only five of them remaining, the other two soldiers having been frightened off by Altair's menacing strikes. The Assassin kept his distance, eying the enemy suspiciously, expecting another trap.

"I thought you said it would be the older Assassin who would be coming after you," the man said smoothly, startling Altair slightly. "What-?" he started, thoroughly confused, until a small voice behind him spoke up.

"I-I thought it would be," Isam said timidly, sounding much younger than his fifteen years. "After all, Malik was the one I was talking to last night. He seemed the one more likely to—"

"It doesn't matter, Isam," the soldier interrupted nonchalantly, waving a hand to silence him. "It should be just as interesting with this one, especially since he was the one who killed Farid last week."

The impact of the situation was only dawning on Altair now as he looked incredulously at the novice he had sought to protect. A traitor-! And so early in his life in the Brotherhood as well. His anger drained as cold indifference stole over him now, the boy shifting uncomfortably under the young Assassin's black glare. There was no bloodlust, no desire to kill him despite his utter disregard of the Creed. The novice was responsible for his own actions. He had brought this upon himself.

Altair instead turned his attention on the three enemies, disdainful now instead of wary. "You do not hesitate to turn brother against brother," he stated scornfully, puzzling the soldiers before him into a hush. "No respect, no honor. I will not be surprised if your faction collapses upon itself within the month."

A scowl passed over the face of the man in front, the seeming authority of the trio. He was quick to hide it though, forcing a grin that was all teeth. "Then perhaps you'd care to help us, Assassin," he said with false courtesy, extending a hand that Altair promptly surveyed for hidden weapons. However, he saw none as the soldier continued, "Please, I insist. I would like to show you our headquarters. Maybe then you would think otherwise."

"I'll have to decline," Altair said coldly, stiffly, already taking a step away from the group and sheathing his long sword. They would be easy to outrun, a small obstacle, nothing more. He ceased to see them as a threat now, mentally disregarding them as scarcely more than overly ambitious thugs who only managed to kill his brothers out of deceit and luck. Nothing he should concern himself with.

"But really," the voice that followed him as he turned to leave was silky, almost seductive. "I _insist_."

The sharp disturbance of air was expected by now, and Altair spun to face the man at the sound of the approaching needles, arm raised and ready to deflect the projectiles. However, he was thoroughly startled to see that none of the three men had moved, no needle in sight.

A split second later, fire seemed to flare across the small of his back, radiating in ripples from several solitary points.

Altair gasped, stumbling forward involuntarily. Almost instantaneously, he realized he couldn't breathe, his throat constricting as if a powerful hand gripped it. The subsequent dizziness staggered him and drove him to his knees, a hand to his tightening throat. Blackness threatened his vision, and in his faltering consciousness, he managed to turn to look for the source of the volley.

Isam was staring at him with wide, almost frightened eyes; shaking arm still outstretched from having thrown the needles. "I'm sorry, dai," he whispered, the wavering voice the last thing Altair could hear, his gray-clothed image the last he could see. Then came the darkness, and the eagle went still.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Sorry if this chapter came a bit slower than the rest. There was a lot of dialogue necessary in this one and it doesn't seem to come quite as easily to me as action sequences.

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**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 6

Altair did not know for how long he was unconscious, again momentarily questioning whether he would ever awaken again. As he slogged forward, fighting his way back into awareness, he realized with a measure of alarm that even the eagle within him had gone silent, now barely a shadow of its usual vibrant, screeching self. He feared for it, more concerned for soul than body.

The Assassin drew a gasping breath as he struggled for life, feeling a searing pain through his lungs more intense than the tightness he had been experiencing for the past week. Even more of the snake's venom had entered his body, he recollected dully. This disgusted him somewhat.

He forced his eyes open, blinking in the dusty half-darkness drifting over the floor he was lying against. The stones pressing against his chest were dirty but well worn, a light wisp of salt-scented air stirring the grime strewn over it. Altair reasoned that he was still by the sea, probably within a warehouse. As his coherent thoughts strengthened, so did his body, feeble as it was from the aftereffects of the poison. Not lethal this time, but damaging enough.

His limbs and chest protested sharply as he rolled onto his side, drawing air through gritted teeth, and focusing all his resolve in keeping the pain at bay. As the young Assassin shifted his arm to try to push himself up, he realized with sudden fear that the familiar press of the blades at his back and hip were missing. Barely bridled panic rose in him now as he realized that not only his eagle, but also his weapons had been lost to him, making him feel empty and vulnerable. He had never been unwillingly stripped of his blades, and realized now why it served as one of the worst punishments of the Brotherhood.

The dizzying sense of emptiness struck his heart almost as deeply as the toxin in his blood, and he may have lost his nerve then and there had he not shifted again and felt the reassuring weight on his left arm, a bit heavier than normal, but present all the same. Altair forced himself to breathe again, calming himself shakily as he lifted his arm over his hooded face and stared at the familiar mechanism still thankfully attached to his arm.

There was a sudden, alien clinking sound by his head, and he finally found the reason why his forearm had felt heavier. An iron chain and shackle dangled from his left wrist, trailing some distance from him before ending in a metal loop set securely into the floor against the wall. He turned his wrist a bit idly, noting that the narrow manacle was clasped over and directly in front of his hidden blade, warning him tauntingly that any attempts to release it would either send the blade into his own arm or rend the weapon irreparably. An attempt, he guessed, to make him feel even more helpless.

Altair lowered his arm again and, sliding his eyes shut in concentration, pushed against the stones to try to gain his feet. Though his chest still felt aflame, and his arms trembled from the weight, he managed to straighten into a kneeling crouch. Feeling some shallow sense of accomplishment, he heard the eagle of him give a soft croon, reminding him that it was not yet over. He grew still, head bowed, finding that the pain gentled to a dull throb as he did so.

Fully composed now, he listened; using the only sharp sense left to him now, and heard the movement of several men in his vicinity. Footsteps and muttered voices echoed clearly, signifying that the warehouse was merely a large single room, pseudo-walls formed out of dusty crates. He was in a corner of the large enclosure, closed in on two sides by the stone of the actual building and on one, his left, by piled wood boxes.

Altair opened his eyes, noting the opposite corner of the building clearly visible ahead of him and gauging that the warehouse was about as wide as the two rooms of the Assassins' Bureau. The square windows were set high up in the stone, wide but letting in little light. It was probably late in the afternoon by now, nearing darkness.

This struck him suddenly, making him wonder if his brothers had noticed his absence. A foolish thought, he concluded calmly. He had been about to leave for Masyaf and they would think he was simply traveling home. He could not expect outside help then. This suited him fine, he convinced himself. An Assassin almost always worked alone.

Altair turned his attention back to the chain, the only thing restraining him from climbing the crates and escaping through the easily reachable windows. He stood slowly, testing its length and realizing that it restricted him from straightening to his full height, barely enough to allow him a step in any direction. The iron was weathered and rusty, likely having once been used to secure stacks of barrels in place. He settled comfortably back down onto one knee and began to run the chain through his fingers, checking it systematically for any minute breaks or weaknesses he could exploit.

However, he was barely able to look over even half of the links when he heard approaching footsteps, likely attracted by the jangle of the metal on rock. Altair set the chain down, composing his face into a careful mask and saw the now familiar man round the wall of crates in front of him, still wearing the stolen light tunic of the Teutonic order.

"Finally awake I see," the man said casually, approaching within a few feet of him and stopping just short of the Assassin's reach. Altair looked at him evenly, flexing the fingers of his left hand involuntarily as he seriously considered making a run at him, just to see how he would react. The man was amused at this, watching him tense to fly despite knowing that he could not.

"We would have received you a lot better if you had just cooperated, Altair," the soldier said almost pityingly as he settled himself onto a low box. "Even that brat Isam was smart enough to see that."

The Assassin said nothing, wondering how much the novice had told the enemy about him. It couldn't have been much, seeing as this annoying man persisted on talking to him, attempting to get him to respond. He was unsure why they had even kept him alive, but he would sooner strangle himself with the chain that held him than give them what they wanted.

"Do they not teach Assassins to speak at Masyaf?" the man said irritably, cutting into Altair's thoughts. "Or is speech only for we who do not immerse ourselves in blood everyday?"

He was largely tempted to remain silent; both as a precaution as well as to further infuriate his captor. However, he ceded, now that he had been relieved of his blades, words were the only arsenal left to him. Besides, once he escaped this place—it was not a question of if, only how and when—any information he could glean would help the Brotherhood immensely.

Taking a quiet breath to clear the underlying throb in his chest, as well as to ensure that his voice would not shake, Altair said sharply, "Words leave little room for action."

The unexpected, rather derisive jibe seemed to leave the soldier taken aback; convinced as he was that the Assassin would stay his tongue. Interest piqued now though, he stood from the box he had been perched on and approached the still motionless man, looking him over with something akin to fascination.

"Hmm, as I thought, all you murderers are just mindless brutes," he said with a smirk, pacing before him at a careful distance, evidently goading the Assassin. "Just illiterate tools wielded by your idiot of a master, unable to comprehend anything but slaughter and death."

"You call us murderers, yet you are the same," Altair said coolly, carefully keeping his temper in check. "Though I admit, your use of poison suggests otherwise. I suppose this means none of you were killers in the beginning? You were originally just a group of bandits, desperate for money."

The soldier's eyes widened slightly, minutely, but the shift was still visible to Altair, even behind the crossed helmet half covering the other's face. He sensed he had hit at least a partial truth. He plowed on, taking a page from Malik's book and deftly reversing their roles in the interrogation, "You are neither Crusader nor Saracen; just a gathering of upstart insignificants. Little more than scavengers on the edges of the Holy War, hoping that the great leaders will throw you some scraps—"

"Enough!" the man snarled, approaching him menacingly and visibly restraining himself as he reflexively groped for a weapon at his belt. The Assassin's eyes followed the enemy's hand, now seeing the outline of a narrow dagger concealed under his tunic. Finally, the fool was in range.

Altair sprang forward, his right arm outstretched and his left trailing behind him to allow him the farthest allowable reach. The man gasped, reacting too slowly as the Assassin latched onto the black cross of his tunic and jerked him close. His left hand easily found the hilt of the enemy's small blade and he drew it with a swift jerk. With dark gaze still fixed coldly on the other's startled face, he stabbed the dagger into the soldier's flank.

The blade bit, not as deeply as he would have liked, weighted as he was by the chain and exhaustion, but it was enough. The guard gave an indignant cry of pain, twisting away before the steel could penetrate into his vitals and backhanding Altair rather viciously across the face. The metal of a gauntlet connected painfully against the Assassin's cheekbone and he fell to the side, away from the man. He managed to catch himself on one hand with sufficient grace however and, crouching docilely again, smirked up at the man past a blooded lip.

"Ra'id!"

There was an anxious shout from a few of the man's comrades as they rushed towards the source of the scream. The injured man—Ra'id was it?—staggered away from Altair with fury sketched across his features, retreating to relative safety amongst his fellows and gripping the shallow wound on his side to staunch the bleeding. One cautiously snatched up the fallen knife before following the others out of the white-robed man's line of sight. A pity it hadn't been poisoned.

They gave the Assassin a wide berth now, these snakes, fearful of his ability to strike despite the irons and the remnants of toxin. He caught snatches of angry conversation as they discussed him from the other side of the wall of crates to his left; many were dropping suggestions to either kill him or at least further restrain him. Altair placidly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and silently promised them that any attempts at either would result in more of their life spilled.

They came to a decision within a few minutes and rounded the corner again. The two unfortunate men in front eyed the Assassin reluctantly as the others impatiently goaded them forward, they just as hesitant to get any closer. From the back, Ra'id's smoldering gaze never left Altair's face, his hand still touching his newly bandaged flank. At the approach of the pair, the chained man stood slowly, deliberately, glowering at them as if daring them to come within reach. One shied, stopping several feet away, but the other advanced with strained determination.

Altair distractedly noticed the escalating ache in his lungs and throat, heightened by the adrenaline coursing through him, but he ignored it, attention instead focused on the soldiers before him. The brave, or foolish, one lunged abruptly, pulling back a fist to aim for the side of his head and simultaneously reaching out to pin his free hand. A quick sidestep was all it took to dodge the punch and as the man leaned down to grab his right wrist, the Assassin pushed forward and drove a knee forcefully into his abdomen. A pained grunt escaped him and Altair threw him backwards, nonchalantly discarding him like an unwanted scrap.

No one else made a move or a sound as the fallen man coughed on the ground, curled against the pain. Finally breaking the silence, Ra'id barked out for all five of the remaining soldiers to attack together, tone ringing with impatience and dangerous authority. The men ran forward in a charge more like a blind, panicked rush, Altair shifting into an offensive stance to meet them head on. There was a moment of violent confusion, the Assassin dodging blows as best he could, managing to break several jaws and even snapping one's knee with a coil of chain, but the sheer number proved too much for him, weak and weaponless as he was.

Altair's breath was torn from him as an elbow connected with his chest, sending him against the cold wall of the warehouse. Two bodies, both with faces bloodied, pushed up against him and painfully gripped his arms at the wrist and elbow, wrenching them behind his back as he thrashed. The others were collecting themselves, nursing fractured bones and bruised prides. Ra'id came closer as the scuffle quieted, his cold smirk back in place now that the eagle had been jessed.

"You've had your fair share of accusations and questions, Assassin," the group leader said spitefully, ignoring his comrades as they limped away to tend to their injuries. "It is time you answered some of mine." The Master Assassin only glared at him, no longer straining against the two men at his back, but still tensed for a fight. Ra'id had grown serious now, dispensing with the pointless taunts and beating around the bush.

"Isam claimed that you are expecting "several more masters" to arrive in Acre by tomorrow," he said, meeting Altair's eyes fearlessly. "I want to know exactly how many are coming and what road they are likely to pass."

"If you are still expecting me to cooperate at this point, then maybe you are more of a fool than I originally thought," the Assassin said flatly, unconcerned by the physical abuse he felt was forthcoming.

However, his words surprisingly seemed to please Ra'id, a sly grin spreading across the guard's features as he heard them. "I thought you might say that," he said lightly, reaching into a pouch by his scabbard to withdraw a tiny bottle filled with colorless liquid, as well as a strange contraption that Altair was only vaguely familiar with. The man drew close to the Assassin, dangling the bottle before his face. "This, my friend, is pure ethanol, a chemical substance found in wines. I'm sure you're familiar of the effect small amounts of it have, errors in judgment and the loosening of tongues for example."

The Assassin recoiled slightly, reflexively, finally recognizing the glass and metal device Ra'id held as a syringe. Picking up on the flicker of fear like a moth to a flame, the leader continued brightly, "The effects of a larger amount should prove more interesting, especially after it's injected directly into the bloodstream. It might not be too much for people like those drunkards on the docks with their heightened tolerance, but I hear the Assassins of Masyaf are banned from alcohol, correct?"

Altair said nothing; drawing back involuntarily and feeling the hands of the other two soldiers tighten as he shifted. His gaze never left the bottle as Ra'id made a show of unstoppering it, filling the air with a sharp, gas-like scent. However, as the guard lowered his attention to the syringe to fill it with the volatile liquid, the Assassin's eyes narrowed and, with a swift kick, he sent the vial and its contents scattering into the air.

Time seemed to still as the viscous ethanol splashed through the air in a clear, shimmering arc. Altair ducked his head, shielding himself with his hood and hiding a smirk at Ra'id's thoroughly confused expression, the second one within the hour. The ill-fated guard holding Altair's right arm received the first hit, taking a small splatter of chemical straight in the face. The Assassin winced slightly at the ungodly howl as the man staggered back, raking at his burning face and eyes as the substance sizzled against his skin.

There were snapped curses as the other two soldiers swiped at drops that landed against exposed hands and faces and Altair was thoroughly grateful for the protection of his layered white robes. He took advantage of the momentary distraction and, twisting, tore free of the other soldier's grip. He turned, grabbing the man by the collar and throwing him against the one still yelling in agony. The cries were cut short as the two collided and collapsed together against and through one of the aging wood crates. Blood pooled as the jagged edges of the broken planks brutally stabbed through the clothes and flesh of the unlucky men.

The Assassin flicked his gaze on Ra'id now, his chest paining and his breathing grating in his ears, but with freedom so close, he was not about to yield. The leader attacked him with startling ferocity; angered as he was at seeing his men fall so easily to their prisoner. He lunged towards him rather foolishly with the empty syringe, neither attempting to draw a different weapon, nor seeming to notice its frailty.

Altair turned aside the first few strikes and punches, but he was struggling now, feeling sweat drip down his face from fending off attacks in such a confined area. He sidestepped to the left, pulling the chain to its limit as he dodged a stab from the needle-tipped glass. As he did so, he was startled at a sudden pressure, a powerful jerk against his wrist.

With some horror, Altair heard a dry crack and the next moment he hit the floor forcefully on his side, yanked down by the metal band around his arm. As pain lanced up the limb, he looked up and saw that Ra'id had stepped on the links of the chain that bound him, pinning both him and it to the floor. The Assassin heard a distant splintering as the syringe was thrown impatiently to the ground some distance away. As he gingerly moved to free himself, the leader's face suddenly filled his vision, sneering down at him.

"My mistake, Altair. You are too much trouble to even bother keeping alive."

The narrow dagger, still slightly stained by its owner's blood, was in Ra'id's hand again and Altair was reminded rather abruptly of an almost identical situation, his and the leader's first encounter on the roof of the Bureau the day previous. Smirking grimly at the circumstance, the Assassin saw a flash of steel hack towards him, and though he raised his arm to defend himself, he was unsure if he had the strength or speed to succeed.

The scream rang clearly in the half-deserted ports and Malik paused in his search for his brother, looking over the waters towards the direction whence it had come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 7

Altair knew he was bleeding even before he felt the crimson warmth spread across the white of his robes, even before he could register the biting pain. His left arm shook visibly from where he held it outstretched above him, both his and Ra'id's blood dripping down his sleeve and spattering his face. The scream died in the soldier's throat as the Assassin mercilessly shoved his hidden blade further into sinew and flesh, the voice ending in a quiet gurgle as the man collapsed beside him and lay still. The narrow dagger that had come within inches of ending Altair's life fell from his hand and clattered oddly loud against the stones.

The young Assassin extracted the blade from his enemy and rolled over, trembling as he gripped onto his bleeding left wrist, the hidden blade protruding sickly out of the back of his palm. He grunted quietly as the knife retracted back into its cradle, scraping sharply against bone and the manacle that had deflected it into its wielder's arm. Altair felt lightheaded, beset by the pain that seemed to twine and entangle itself about his left arm, the stab wound bleeding heavily and the fracture from the jerk on the chain still fresh.

Vaguely, he heard tentative footsteps and he looked up past his hood to see about a dozen men, standing in a cluster and gaping at the scene of carnage. Altair's eyes narrowed at the last of the snakes, seeing four of them still sporting the injuries he had inflicted on them earlier, and had the sudden urge to rise, to finish the job. Though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak, and the eagle in him screeched in frustration as the men took one look at their fallen leader and scattered, none even thinking of trying to approach the Assassin to finish him off.

Altair listened to them leave, unsure if he was relieved or irritated that they did, and winced at the banging of a large door as they slammed it open and closed in their hurry. Gathering himself, he turned to his injuries and reached towards one of the fallen soldiers lying by him, tearing a length of the white tunic to bandage the heel of his palm. With the bleeding stemmed to some extent, he concentrated on attempting to get upright, unable to put any weight on his left arm, barely able to even move it. He groaned softly as he managed to move to a sit, cradling his wounded limb against his chest.

The Assassin blinked sweat and blood from his eyes, shakily collecting his strength. The chain dragged down on his injury, sending splinters of pain up his arm every time he shifted. Scowling at the accursed piece of metal, he took up the dagger Ra'id had dropped and began to pick at the rusty lock of the shackle, concentrating on the clattering turn of the pins with some difficulty.

When finally the blood-drenched iron fell from his arm, he breathed a sigh of relief, kicking it away from himself with slightly childish contempt. He settled his arm against his chest and bluntly ignored the slowly spreading scarlet blot on his sleeve, intent only on keeping his limb as still as possible. Altair rose carefully, gingerly, accepting the signals of pain his body sent him and absorbing it to deal with later.

He walked unsteadily past the walls of boxes, taking note of a few tables and chairs, most sporting newly lit candles, and a small stockade of weapons that the soldiers had forgotten in their flight. It was this he approached and dug through, shifting through the knives and short blades until he found his own familiar saber and dagger, still comfortably sheathed in their eagle-motif scabbards. He awkwardly bound both to his belt, unable to strap on the shoulder harness in his state, but nevertheless felt contentedly whole again.

The Master Assassin looked towards the darkness gathering at the edges of the warehouse, announcing the coming evening. The cold wind off the sea filtered in through the windows, chilling him and flickering the dancing candle flames into frenzy. It was time he returned to the Bureau, he decided evenly, looking around for the exit. He found it in a large, solid wood and metal affair, twice as large as any normal entrance, built to allow cargo to pass through. He set a hand against the wood, but as he pushed, he realized it had been barred from the other side, likely the cowardly soldiers' attempt to seal in the phantom of death.

Altair frowned in slight worry, unsure if he could make the climb to the high windows with only one usable arm. He swept a scrutinizing gaze over the random arrangement of crates throughout the warehouse space, trying to find a stack that he could climb without too much difficulty. He settled on the ones across from the corner he had just vacated, the metallic tang of blood still heavy in the air there from the three bodies that littered it. The Assassin pulled in a breath in preparation and approached the first stack at a run, stretching a hand out to the lip of the topmost box that was just over his head.

The wood creaked forebodingly under his weight as he fought to pull himself up, boots slipping against the near-ancient wood for any small leverage. Altair succeeded after a few long seconds of struggle, rolling onto his side atop it and inwardly cursing his wounds. He paused to catch his evasive breath before regaining his feet, minding his arm carefully. Dark eyes focused on the nearest window, level with him now, but a wide leap away from the stack he was balanced on. Normally, a quick jump would allow him to grab onto the edge, but he doubted his right arm alone could hold his weight long enough for him to climb out.

The Assassin crouched pensively, gazing around the area for anything else he could use to reach the window, but no other point in the room would allow him to get this close to escape. He frowned and decided to take the chance, only praying that his strength would hold out. As he stood, a short, sharp crack rent the air, and he tensed, looking around for its source. Suddenly alarmed, he realized that the sound had come from the crates that held him, the dry old wood having lost most of its structural integrity over time.

Throwing caution to the winds and his fate to the talons of his eagle, Altair took off at a sprint, feeling the crossed boards give slightly under each step. The cool night wind swirled past him and tugged at the tails of his robe, somewhat invigorating his failing spirit. He reached the end of the neat stack and pushed off against the last box forcefully, feeling portions of the crate shatter under him, staggering him slightly and absorbing precious momentum. The stone ledge of the window seemed further now, but he reached for it nonetheless, bracing for the coming impact.

The Assassin managed to curl half his right arm over the lip of the window as he fell and the rest of his body slammed against the wall, stopped abruptly in its descent. Gritting his teeth to keep in the yell of pain as his injured left took the brunt of the blow, Altair scrambled to hold his position, tensing his arm until he near felt his tendons rip, feet braced desperately against the stones.

For a brief moment he thought he would fall, collapse back into the hell of a warehouse too drained for a second attempt. But the eagle of him gave a shriek, indignantly flaring its wings against death, and Altair gave a final pull, managing to jerk his yielding body out into open air. The drop was short, passing by in a blink, and the Assassin suddenly felt a shallow pile of hay enclose him gently, welcoming him with a barely audible rustle of strands.

He lay still for a moment, breathing in the musty, dry smell of the straw and staring up at the clouded night above him. Everywhere there was silence, only broken by an occasional chorus of steps and voices as small gangs of sailors and merchants and boatmen passed him on their way home. Altair waited for a lull in the crowd before rolling to his feet, stray fibers clinging to him, and noted stoically now that the bandage he had tied around his wrist had all but soaked through.

The young man headed precariously towards a deserted bench to sit, to rest as he rebound his wound, but he barely made it halfway when a sudden flash of white on the corner of his eye caught him. Visions of Teutonic knights descending on him made his adrenaline spike once again, he already seeing the white and black tunics blaring like beacons in the dark. With his left arm still incapacitated and curled against his chest, he reached over and snatched clumsily at his short blade. He drew the steel in a half-frenzied forward slash, whirling around towards the threat.

"Wait, Altair-!" The cry, the familiar voice stilled his hand more efficiently than a counter attack. Altair froze, staring rather blankly at the man in front of him as nearby torch light glanced off his sword, illuminating Malik's startled face and outstretched hands, poised to keep the blade from laying open his throat had it continued in its arc.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he unsteadily lowered and sheathed his weapon, breath coming in clipped, steady gasps. The young Assassin stood motionless under the other's scrutiny, seeing the shock register clearly in his brother's gray eyes as they passed over the darkening bruise on the side of his face and the blood doused rag wrapped around his awkwardly positioned wrist.

"You… _What the _hell_ happened to you_?"

Altair blinked at him, emotionless, his reaction numbed along with the rest of his body. "Malik," he stated idly, the name almost a question. "Why are you here?"

The older Assassin's eyes were still wide, but at the dull response, a glimmer of anger flared. "Is that all you can say?" he demanded in a harsh whisper, unwilling to draw attention to them despite the rush of emotion. Altair staggered back slightly as the other grabbed onto his shoulders at the sleeve, forcing him to look at him. "I've been searching everywhere for you, you fool! Your horse never left the stables, and you didn't even pick up the saddlebag you hid outside the Bureau! What in Allah's name were we supposed to think?"

Altair fell into a subdued quiet, unresponsive throughout Malik's outburst and barely hearing him over the tedious pounding in his ears. Suddenly dizzy, likely from the severe blood loss, he slowly reached out a hand and gripped the older Assassin's sleeve, attempting to keep his balance. "Thank you for your concern, brother," he murmured with a hint of sarcasm, his voice almost inaudible even in the hush of the darkly cloaked port and eyes not quite focusing on the other. His face must have grown pale, for his brother's fury vanished as abruptly as it had reared, replaced now with alarm.

"Altair!" The hold on his sleeves tightened, supporting the injured Assassin as his legs gave way, buckling despite his valiant efforts to keep upright. Malik glanced around swiftly, hearing the sounds of a small, chattering crowd approaching and searching for a place he could treat his brother's wounds out of danger of being seen. Like all the other raptors of Masyaf, the safest haven that called to him was the sky.

"Can you climb, brother?" he urged Altair, peering down at the other man in his failing consciousness. The younger Assassin shook his head mutely, struggling, but still clinging stubbornly to wakefulness. Malik gave a short, impatient sound. "Fine, then just try to keep your wrist still."

He obediently held onto his fractured wrist to immobilize it, starting to open his mouth in a question until he felt Malik's grip on him shift. The other man crouched slightly then rather deftly threw his younger brother over his shoulder, taking off at a run as soon as he had a firm hold on him. Completely startled, Altair could only hold on, feeling a gentle lurch as the elder Assassin leapt, bounding skillfully from a nearby stack of barrels to the roof of an ocean-side hovel.

Malik set him down against the wall of the adjacent shack, ignoring the rather indignant look Altair managed to give him from being carried. "Drink," he said instead, concealing a small smirk and proffering the water skin from his belt. "No doubt you're anemic by now."

The Master Assassin complied passively enough, admittedly relieved by the cool liquid against the smothering fog of fatigue. He watched Malik crouch by his left arm, taking it and gently undoing the hasty bandage to replace it with the clean dressings he had brought with him. As he worked, he seemed appalled at the strangely situated stab wound and he met his brother's gaze tentatively. "Did you do this to yourself?"

A moment's hesitation. "It was necessary," Altair responded simply.

Malik nodded and did not question him further, turning his attention instead to the rest of his injuries. He ran a practiced hand over the dark, swollen bruise circling the younger Assassin's wrist, feeling the displaced bones and gauging the extent of the fracture. Altair attempted not to flinch, momentarily worried that he would release his hidden blade reflexively if he did so.

"Well, luckily for you, it's not broken," Malik finally announced, looking up from his deep concentration to meet Altair's eyes. "A sprain at the most, but it should be swollen for a while. Also…" With some uncertainty, he tapped the younger Assassin's hidden blade. "You should take this off for now. The extra weight won't exactly help the healing."

When the other Assassin didn't move, Malik scowled abruptly. "Look, would you rather lose your entire left arm or lose your blade for a few days? Don't be so stubborn, brother. We are Assassins, we must always be ready to adapt."

Altair bristled a bit at the lecture, offended at having to be reminded of the Creed. "I _know_, Malik. I'd appreciate it if you didn't put words into my mouth," he said hotly, working on the clasps and buckles binding his blade to his arm. He had barely ever removed it since it had been entrusted to him during his initiation, but willingly parting with it for a while was much more desirable than losing the ability to use it.

Malik smiled faintly at his brother's outburst. "You sound like you're recovering already," he said nonchalantly, settling his back against the wall beside him to wait, relaxing for the first time since the two of them had met. As Altair rather reverently set the mechanism at his side, his fellow Assassin began making a simple splint for his injured arm, little more than a tight bandage to immobilize it.

As he worked, Malik, seeming unable to keep in the question any longer, asked, "What happened since we parted this morning?" His tone was serious, knowing the incident must have been severe for Altair to leave it as wounded as he had. There was no faltering now as the younger Assassin told his brother what had happened, his tone considerably blank as he gave as many details about the enemy as he could.

At the mention of Isam's betrayal, Malik seemed disbelieving but did not voice his opinion until Altair had finished. "I would never have thought," he said quietly, eyes averted. "To raise a hand against a brother…"

The younger Assassin left him to his thoughts, shifting his arm into a comfortable position in the loose sling Malik had bound about his shoulders. A sudden thought passed him and he blurted abruptly, "Where is the novice now? Do you think he returned to the Bureau?"

Malik stared at him in confusion, a second behind in the realization. "We need to warn the rafiq," he said darkly, rising swiftly and gathering the supplies he had used for Altair. The other Assassin stood as well, scowling against the protesting weakness in his body. As he deftly stowed his hidden blade against his belt, he felt his brother's eyes on him, probably indecisive of whether to leave him behind.

"Isam is not beyond using poison," Altair said bluntly in answer to the unvoiced question. "The rafiq could be in danger. Run ahead while there is time, brother, I won't be far behind."

The Master Assassin could sense more than see Malik's wavering resolve, unsure whether to protect his senior or his friend. Altair glared at him steadily, silently but clearly reminding of his duties. The message passed between them, and the older Assassin finally gave a short nod, swiftly vanishing into the distance and darkness in a fading blur of white.

Alone again, Altair made his way off the building, dropping a short distance onto a bench set against the wall and frowning as the drop jarred his arm. He would be bound to the streets, but he refused to be a liability. As he turned and headed briskly towards the walls separating the port from the middle district, he passed by the entrance of the warehouse he had been encaged in.

The Assassin paused, seeing the stack of barrels that had been barricaded against the door, the reason that he had been unable to leave earlier. A thought flashed in his mind and he moved towards them, rolling the barrels away with some difficulty to unblock the entryway.

He spent less than a few seconds inside the building, doing little more than knocking over one of the wood tables before leaving at a swift pace. As Altair distanced himself from the enemy's headquarters, the flame from the candle he had overturned bit into and swiftly climbed across the old wood crates. Within minutes, it had surged to a dangerous height, safely contained by stonewalls, but devouring all inside with a vengeful appetite.

There was little satisfaction as the roaring orange shone through the high windows of the warehouse, blazing until the building was little more than a burnt out husk, but Altair held a grim smile all the same.

* * *

Author's Note: The end should be near, only a few more loose ends to tie up now.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Two more chapters at the most after this one. Thank you to all of those who have stuck with this story thus far.

* * *

**Assassin's Creed:**_ Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 8

The Assassin ran now, passing through the shadowed streets with barely a whisper of robes to mark his passing. He felt slightly off balance with all three of his weapons bound to his side and one arm unusable, compensating for them carefully, reminded himself to readjust his weapons later. The cold, dead air parted before him, still enough to alert him to approaching guards or late-night stragglers, clearly carrying the sound of shuffled footsteps as they drew near.

A few times Altair needed to duck into a side alley or sheltered doorway to dodge a passing patrol, unwilling to waste time in a fight and unable to flee if he needed to. He glanced longingly up at the edge of the rooftops during one such pause but made no attempt to climb. Only a fool ignored his own limitations.

There were stabs of worry for Acre's rafiq that interrupted his concentration as he wove his way towards the Bureau, frustrated by the winding path he needed to take to dodge buildings he would have easily flown over at another time. He pushed the hampering thoughts back, focusing instead on the dome that occasionally peered out at him between other, taller structures.

Malik would need his help, the Master Assassin reminded himself sternly. Especially if Isam was the only enemy they faced. He did not doubt his brother's skill, and indeed had received many the bruise or laceration from their sparring, but he was unsure if his friend would be able to raise a blade to the boy if it became necessary. To the elder Assassin who had not seen him side with the enemy, the novice was still an innocent.

At the foot of the Bureau, Altair stopped, standing stock-still and listening intently for signs of a struggle, a fight, but fear rose in his throat when he could hear nothing. At the pace he had gone, Malik had likely been within the sanctuary for at least ten minutes before. Had both he and the Keeper already been…?

Moving purely on adrenalin now, the Assassin sprinted around the corner and leapt for the ladder, using his good hand to drag himself up and ignoring his protesting left. The wooden rungs clattered noisily against the wall as he cleared the top unsteadily, panting and staring around the dimly lit rooftops for intruders. When again he caught nothing, he took the few steps to look down into the open courtyard, shifting into a cautious ready stance atop the carved Assassin's crest.

A small light flickered out through the wooden door standing ajar, etching an orange line across the still slightly ash-stained stones. He caught the barest of rustling now, the movement of a figure within the Bureau. Mouth flattened to a grim line, Altair drew his dagger and jumped lightly down onto the rim of the fountain, skipping from there to land just before the band of light.

Altair tightened his grip on his blade and bumped open the door to the inner rooms with his shoulder, narrowed eyes searching for signs of a threat. Malik looked up at him from behind the desk, hands full of papers and maps, more scattered across the rafiq's once clean desk. His eyes were stone-like and unreadable, and as soon as he recognized his brother, he turned his attention mutely back to his work, shifting through the documents.

The younger Assassin lowered his short sword and was about to ask what had happened until he glanced into the back corner of the room and his query was stilled. The rafiq was lying slumped against the low table at the back of the inner Bureau, face hidden by his curled arms and motionless. Altair took a step towards him but was stopped by his brother's sharp reprimand.

"Don't bother," Malik said tightly, the ruffling of paper getting louder in his agitation. "He's already dead."

Altair nodded quietly. With closer inspection, he noticed the rafiq's favored incense jar lying in pieces by his still body; its contents well doused with what he guessed was water from the fountain. Malik's doing no doubt. The smoldering ashes gave off the lightest scent of sour almonds and the Assassin drew away sharply, recognizing the betraying smell of cyanide. He felt sickened, knowing how well the Keeper had loved the smell of incense, the smoke that had now led him to his grave.

He distanced himself, opening the door of the Bureau to allow the night wind to clear any remaining wisps of poison. Altair leaned on the edge of the entranceway, glancing at his brother. "And Isam?"

"Long gone," Malik answered shortly, pausing in his movements as he finally found what he was searching for. He withdrew a sheaf of letters, the small rolls of paper bound together by cords. "I'm guessing he took the letter al Mualim sent here a few days ago, his reply to the rafiq's request for reinforcements. I don't know if the novice heard about the enemy leader's death, but he was probably acting on previous orders to help them ambush our brothers."

"So we are to stop them," Altair stated, his voice calm, but his gaze carefully averted from the body of their rafiq growing cold at the back of the room.

"No." The shuffling stopped as the other Assassin set the papers on the desk, hardened eyes fixed fiercely on his brother. "_I_ am to stop them. You will stay here and watch the Bureau."

The Master Assassin hackled indignantly, approaching the desk with angry steps. "You are not above me in rank, brother," he said more harshly than he meant, already injured pride further bruised. "You cannot order me—"

"Your orders were to return to Masyaf," Malik interrupted vehemently, violently banging a hand against the wooden table between them and nearly overturning an inkwell. "You were commanded to return almost three days ago, yet here you are. Don't you think the Master had reason to order you so? How many more injuries do you need to receive before the realization gets through that stubborn head of yours? Right now, you are _useless_, Altair!"

The young Assassin recoiled as if stung, hurt flashing across his face like a startled bird. The next moment though, anger flared in its place and he lashed out without thinking, a punch flying towards Malik's face. Expecting the blow, his brother evaded easily, reaching out and catching hold of the passing fist by the leather gauntlet. Altair winced visibly as his forearm was twisted and forced down against the desk, further scattering the papers strewn across it.

"See? You are completely helpless like this," Malik said coldly, meeting Altair's infuriated gaze before releasing him, bluntly turning his back and moving instead to gather the documents he had searched through. "It would be more useful to have one of the fortress librarians accompany me."

"You speak as if these injuries are my fault," the wounded Assassin snapped, voicing a pain that he did not believe in. "If you had not made me tail that traitor of a novice, I _would_ have been able to follow al Mualim's orders."

"Yes, of course you would blame me for that," Malik said, his voice highly sarcastic as he shoved scrolls and books back into their places on the shelf. "But the true reason you fell was because you were weak. Or are you blaming your carelessness and lack of skill on me too?"

Altair was silenced, disliking but sharply feeling the biting truth. The older Assassin pushed his advantage, speaking harshly into the quiet. "Honestly, to be beaten by a fifteen-year-old because you turned your back? Such a rookie mistake."

The two Assassins were quiet after this, Altair simply watching the other with subdued unrest visible in his eyes, still and tense as if for a battle, Malik doing quite the opposite and hiding his discomfort behind the flurry of sorting and organizing. The younger Assassin knew his brother well, the two of them having spent so many years together as initiates of the Brotherhood, but this personal attack, this rubbing of salt into open wounds was starkly unlike him.

A sudden comprehension struck him and Altair slowly relaxed his stance, dark gaze softening somewhat. He spoke quietly, "You do not need to protect me, Malik."

The elder of the pair paused, the edge of his hood concealing his face. "No?" His voice was strained now, the once heated disdain rigid. "You could have died in that warehouse, Altair, if not by the enemy's torment, then by your own hand. Not only that, this is the fifth brother they've taken from us in a month. The _fifth_. Only the Templars have ever done so much damage in so short a time." The last book was thrown into its shelf with a decisive thump and Malik's scornful tone rose. "This enemy cannot be taken lightly, so you'll excuse me if I'm a little concerned."

Altair tilted his head slightly, surveying Malik with a steady gaze. "Then I will stay."

The other Assassin seemed a bit startled, likely having expected his younger brother to fight tooth and nail for the chance to go out and face the enemy. He shook his head, allowing himself a small smirk as he slipped out from behind the desk. "Maybe you have a little more sense than I give you credit for," he said evenly, patting Altair's shoulder approvingly as he passed.

"When will our comrades reach Acre?" Altair asked, settling himself on a chair by the rafiq's desk and resigning himself to the inactivity.

Malik paused a minute, recalling the letter the rafiq had shown him sometime during the week Altair had been recovering from the arsenic poisoning. "Before first light tomorrow," he said finally. "I will go to meet them and try to scout out the ambush the last of those snakes are planning. Once we return, we'll need to relocate the Bureau as soon as possible—this area is no longer safe."

"I will gather the rafiq's archive and possessions, then," Altair said with a short nod, casting an eye over the considerable amount of supplies and manuscripts that filled the safe house. He glanced over at Malik as the other prepared to leave, admittedly a bit sore to be left behind. The passive duties of a Keeper would never suit him. "Safety and peace, brother."

"And to you. Guard yourself well, Altair, the enemy may yet return to ransack the Bureau." Malik raised a hand in farewell and disappeared out the door, his light footfalls fading into the peaking night.

The Assassin sat, listening to his brother leave, but was only still for a few moments until his impatient eagle spurred him into movement again. First, he turned towards the back of the inner room and gently lifted the rafiq's body as best he could with one arm, laying it out on one of the rich Persian rugs before covering it with a spare blanket. As he busied himself packing away the neatly shelved scrolls, Altair found that the menial work freed his mind to wandering thoughts, allowing him to touch on the various past events with more concentration than he had previously had time for.

He worked exceptionally fast; deciding that he somewhat liked the trivial labor, and had settled most of the Bureau's contents into crates before the night was out. As he finished though, he realized a bit belatedly that he had been pushing himself, still slightly stung by Malik's accusation of his uselessness. His body protested, hampering him for rest, but he was determined to finish before he allowed himself to sleep. Elsewhere, his brothers were fighting the enemy. This was the least he could do.

He tossed the final rolled map atop the neat stack within one of the many open crates lined against the wall by the door, reassuring himself that he had not forgotten anything by sweeping the room with a tired gaze. Altair at last allowed himself to relax, letting his senses dull momentarily. He had been guarded throughout the whole endeavor of packing, listening carefully for hostile approach, but not so much as a stray Teutonic archer had drawn near the entrance. Quietly, he admitted that he was exhausted.

The Assassin climbed behind the desk, leaning his back against the wall adjacent to the doorway and carefully removing the weapons at his belt. He laid his hidden blade and saber in the now empty shelves by his side, leaving only the dagger with him. Somewhat bitterly, he realized that it was the only one he could properly wield if ever a situation arose.

Sliding against the cool stone, Altair sat comfortably on the rug at his feet and leaned his bared short sword across his knees, closing his eyes for much needed rest. He drifted almost immediately, but after all the disastrous results of his previously dropped guard, his eagle perched ever dormant, head under a wing but golden eyes only half-lidded.

The Bureau remained still and silent, the night only interrupted briefly by a slight pervading dimness as the candle Malik had lit guttered and died, the flame drowning in the pool of melted wax. Not long after this, sunlight began to slip in underneath the closed door and outside, someone landed in the courtyard with a quiet thud.

Awareness returned to him within a few seconds, the Assassin's grip already tightening on the hilt of his short blade. He remained motionless, dark eyes still closed as he followed the intruder's movements by sound. A tentative hand was pressed to the wood of the unbarred door, nudging it experimentally to allow a gap wide enough to peer through. Upon deeming it safe, the single figure entered the Bureau.

Altair's eyes flared open and he was on his feet in a smooth flash of white, whirling to the left and viciously kicking the trespasser back out of the inner rooms. His boot connected solidly with leather armor and the other hit the courtyard stones on his back with a soft cry. The Assassin followed the slight body, standing imposingly over the fallen one with his curved dagger leveled to his face.

Isam stared up at him in hardly concealed shock. His wide eyes passed momentarily over the dark shadowed bruise on the side of Altair's coldly livid face before looking around the outer room rather jerkily, a cornered mouse searching for escape under an eagle's talons. "D-Don't kill me, brother," he said feebly, one hand raised as if to ward off the blade over his head.

However, Altair's dangerously slitted eyes were focused on the novice's other hand, the one currently groping at his belt for a weapon. He sidestepped swiftly, the single, desperately thrown needle grazing the edge of his hood as it passed. Rather heartlessly, he stepped on Isam's sword arm, pinning it to the floor with a boot. "Do not call me brother," he said harshly, seemingly unconcerned as the boy cringed under him. "How could you betray the Brotherhood? Raise a hand against the rafiq who would have done anything to protect you from harm?"

"They would have killed me," Isam cried, almost angrily, twisting away to avoid the Assassin's burning glare. "And I am not responsible for his death, not truly. It was the poison that—"

"Poison is only as deadly as the hand that wields it, no different from a blade," Altair responded sharply. "Trying to absolve yourself of the guilt is even more cowardly than striking at your protector's back."

The white-robed man paused, looking down at the boy as he pondered what to do with him. "Tell me, where have those new friends of yours gone? Are they still planning on ambushing the convoy arriving from Masyaf?"

"I-I don't know!" Isam snapped back, thrashing almost wildly now to get out from under Altair's grip. The Assassin stepped away, letting him up, assured that he would be able to catch him again if he tried to run. "You were with them for a moment, weren't you, dai?" the novice continued, retreating back a few steps. "You met Ra'id? If you had given them a chance, you would have seen that their intentions weren't as evil as you think them to be!"

"I honestly don't care what their intentions were," Altair cut in darkly, pacing a little and backing Isam up against the broken fountain. "But they spilled the blood of brothers and the Master's orders were to rid the world of them. What more reason could you need to kill?"

"You're blind," the boy said quietly, unable to meet Altair's eyes as he accused him. "All the Assassins are. Ra'id was right; we follow al Mualim too mindlessly, too naively. Our deeds are no different from King Richard's and Salah ad-Din's, we deserve death as much as they do—"

"You are mistaking blindness with trust, boy," the Assassin said calmly, tired of listening to the brainwashed claims. "I am not interested in what those snakes have poisoned your mind with. Just tell me, are they arranging an ambush or not? Speak, Isam, and maybe al Mualim will be a little more lenient with your punishment."

Isam glanced at the blade Altair had lowered to his side, most of his expression shrouded by his gray hood. "The group will do nothing," he whispered, his voice faltering. "Their "ambush" on the roads outside Acre is nothing more than a decoy, a way to make the convoy from Masyaf drop their guards. I heard them, not a few hours ago. The knights Templar will be the ones to finish the job."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: I apologize for the delay of this chapter, but halfway through writing it I changed my mind about something and had to start over. Hopefully the extra length will make up for it.

* * *

**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 9

_Templars_. The word rang sourly in Altair's ears, the instinctive bloodlust already rising in him. The knights' personal vendetta against the Assassins was common knowledge, a hatred for the name practically bred into each brother at novicehood. They were a despised nemesis, a dangerous one never to be underestimated.

His eagle fluttered distraught feathers against the blinding anger, and the Assassin paused, realizing that he was torn. Considering what Isam said was true, something already doubtful given the fact he had betrayed the Brotherhood, there was no way of knowing if the information was a trap in itself; bait to lure him away from the Bureau.

"How are you so sure of this?" Altair asked carefully, eying the novice who was still cowering by the fountain.

"A letter," Isam responded promptly, words flowing freely from him now as if he believed confessing all he knew would pardon him from his crime. "Ra'id asked me to deliver a letter to the Knights Teutonic to be passed on to their brothers in Jerusalem. They decided a double ambush would be best after I… after I told them about the pass through the mountains outside Acre, the one known only to those of Masyaf."

Altair's eyes narrowed. The pass, running parallel to a main thoroughfare flanked by two mountains, was hidden in plain sight, just as those who frequented it. It had been a close-guarded secret for many years, a stretch of sanctuary between Bureaus.

Isam's two-facedness, one rivaling even that of the snakes, was finally coming to light, he thought bitterly. To have told the enemy side such furtive information and turn around the next minute to admit what he had done to the other side was evidence of fickleness. He who sided with everyone was sided with by no one. This lack of loyalty had damned him. He would never be allowed to be an Assassin, perhaps would not even be given the chance to be a man.

"You said there would be two ambushes," the Master Assassin continued, sheathing his short blade and watching Isam attentively as the other visibly relaxed. "The false one made up of Ra'id's mercenaries, and the true one of the Templars, correct? But how can that be in such a narrow pass?"

The boy said nothing, perhaps weighing his options. He was quite skilled in hiding truths if nothing else, Altair admitted, he having fooled the Brotherhood of his allegiance for so long. But no man could completely mask guilt, especially when subjected to fear. Altair idly drew one of his throwing knives, eyes slowly ranging over targets he could aim for. A shot to the arm or the leg would not kill him. Isam felt his gaze and tensed, realizing his intentions and backing a step further away from the white-robed one. "I would suggest you answer quickly, boy, I have little patience."

There was a brief, heavily laden silence as the novice shifted minutely, skittishly. "I d-don't know-!" he finally admitted shakily, eyes unable to leave the eagle-motif blade glinting past Altair's fingers. "I honestly don't! The letter assumed that the receiver knew where to station his men. It was more of an affirmation of a plan, it said nothing of the plan itself."

The Assassin's dark eyes bore into Isam's brown ones, seeking signs of deceit. He could read none, only fear and apprehension but with a truthful tinge all the same. Trusting in his ability to sense the hidden signs, he gave a short nod. "Then you are of no more use to me."

The Master Assassin left the Bureau within the hour, trap or no, leaving the novice bound securely behind the desk of the safe house. Though he would have never admitted it to the younger one, he had been loath to actually injure the boy. Despite the fact that Isam was the reason Altair had fallen to Ra'id and his men, the reason Acre's Bureau was now unmanned, he could not help but see him as a brother.

Slightly irked by his own moral weakness, Altair scowled, distracting himself by running his attention over the equipment he had taken with him. Along with his throwing knives, he had tied two of his weapons to either side of his belt, the short dagger where his saber usually hung, and his hidden blade set comfortably against his flank. Though the blade itself was unusable, the embossed metal at its back provided a certain amount of protection. The weapon was still important to him, whether he could wield it properly or not.

Altair moved at a measured pace through the steadily filling streets, his eagle thoroughly weary of this constant flight. He was unsure if he would be able to warn Malik and his brothers before they reached the pass, but he needed to try. Seeking revenge was a suitable penance for failure while trying, but to not even attempt to help could only be absolved with his own death.

He paused as he drew near the northern gates, glancing at the four guards standing attentively before it, sweeping all who passed with a practiced eye. His timing could not be worse, he realized dully. The shift had just changed, relieving the night-wearied guard with fresh soldiers who were actually intent on doing their jobs. Altair ducked into a side street to readjust his plan.

The Assassin began to unwind the sling Malik had tied across his left shoulder, knowing it would attract too much attention. It would be difficult enough passing as a scholar with the blades at his side, much more so if he was a supposed intellectual with an arm injury. He allowed his left to hang rather stiffly at his side, cautiously flexing his fingers. The pain had gentled to an uncomfortable numbness, but he reminded himself that any attempts to use it would aggravate his injury.

Wrapping the extra cloth from the sling around his forearm to mask the browned stain of old blood, Altair began searching for a group to blend into, knowing the white-robed Assassin allies frequented the areas by the gates. It took several minutes of waiting and scanning the crowd, but finally he caught sight of a small collection of about a half-dozen scholars moving serenely past the merchants stocking their stalls for the morning sale.

He slipped into their group as they passed the alley, greeting the non-Assassin brothers with a deep nod. The leader of the scholars, a hoodless elder capped in white, acknowledged his presence with a tilted head and a casual change in direction, heading instead for the walls of the city. Altair ambled along with them, head bowed in a careful mimic, and cautiously tugged the peak of his hood lower over his face to hide the mar Ra'id's gauntlet had left across his cheekbone.

The guards ignored the assembly as it passed and Altair chanced a quick glance at them past his hood. He checked for the faces of the enemy that were still burned into his memory, those faces of the last of the faction who had fled after he had killed Ra'id. However, none of the low set helmets masked any of the men he was searching for, so he moved on with disinterest.

The Assassin gave a quiet word of thanks to his companions once they had left the confines of Acre's walls and left them in the direction of the stables. At his approach, a black stallion at the far edge of the corral flicked its ears and came towards him, prancing in happiness at the return of its master. Altair stroked the horse's muzzle in greeting and went to collect his gear from the nearby stable hand, tossing him the payment for his steed's lodging.

He rode up the shallow rise of the hill that curled about Acre's northern border at a steady canter, his injured arm lying rather uselessly against the saddle horn. As the city disappeared over the lip of the rise behind him, Altair urged his horse into a gallop, knowing the Assassins' most likely route through the pair of mountainous roads lay just beyond Arsuf. The low road that was used only by the Brotherhood passed between tall cliffs, one sheer and the other carved into a second road, the frequented high pass.

Altair found himself searching for Malik's white steed on the path ahead of him as he went along at a swift pace, but quickly shook his head at the foolishness. His brother had left hours before, and had no doubt joined up with the convoy from Masyaf by now. He could only hope that the Templars had not yet assumed their positions when the Assassin had passed. If ever they had, he assured himself. They had likely only been wary of a large group moving in the opposite direction.

There were few other travelers on this path, and the Assassin was able to reach the dissection of roads in the mountain pass without incident. He glanced up at the high road to his left, the path inclining gently upwards on well-worn stone to a rather modest height about the same as a three-storey building. Though there was only a small difference between the two paths, it was this higher one that most took, almost all passersby thinking the lower one haunted by thieves and the danger of rockslides. Altair turned his mount towards this neglected, slightly overgrown road.

Altair had barely passed into the mouth of the valley when he felt eyes upon him, his eagle hackling at the dangerous aura. He remained impassive with his head bowed, discretely tugging on his horse's reigns to slow it to a trot. With his eyes safely shadowed from all else, he darted glances around him, trying to pinpoint the enemy presence. He searched avidly for the familiar and hated bloody red crosses, guessing that the mercenaries' ambush was further in, towards Masyaf, and that the one he could sense now was that on the Templars.

A sharp clatter of stone on his right caught his attention, and his dark gaze fixed upon a small falling rock, dislodged from a high, narrow ledge. It landed with a minute clatter, rolling some distance down the path. The Assassin resisted the urge to look up, instead listening for movement. He caught a shift, a light rustle of a robe and an almost inaudible scrape of a metal boot on stone. No more than five archers, he gauged, hidden in an elevated outcrop to his right, roughly half the height of the high road on the left.

Even his horse could feel the danger now, ears flattening to the side of its head as it snorted a little in distress. Altair carefully kept it steady, flicking his attention to his other side. The knights were growing restless, he guessed, again hearing more movement from an indention in the cliff face some distance ahead of him, narrow but deep enough to conceal at least a half dozen men from anyone passing it from either direction.

The Templars were unused to hiding and waiting, so accustomed to parading through streets in full view and chasing down their enemy with great clamor. This standing still was costing them their cover, easily noticeable even with the sounds of a considerable amount of horses from passing caravans floating down from the higher path. Even had he not learned of their presence from Isam, any Assassin would likely still have been able to sense them.

Altair wondered if they would risk springing their trap on him, would take the chance of alerting the other, larger group from Masyaf of their location in exchange for a lone enemy. He doubted it, but perhaps they were restless enough to try it. It mattered not if they killed him here, so long as his comrades were forewarned of the knights' involvement. This path was the only safe stop along the wearying journey between Masyaf and Acre; the only location Assassins chanced a drop of guard. To protect his brothers, he would need to provoke the enemy into action.

Already hearing Malik reprimand his foolhardiness, the Master Assassin deliberately stopped before the concealed entrance to the Templars' hiding place, hearing a quiet intake of breath from within. He counted three creaking of bowstrings from on high, arrows tightening across the long bows as if to threaten him to stay away. He ignored them, a hand passing slowly over the throwing knife scabbard at his hip. He thumbed over four, noting an additional five still at his boot. More than enough.

The Master Assassin's eyes slid shut, leaving the aim to his more skilled eagle and visualizing the blood red aura of the men upon the cliff behind him. His motion was sharp and calculated, compensating for his injuries with a practiced air now, his movement little more than a twist and a flick of the arm. The single dagger pierced the air in a broken mirage of silver, landing true deep in the arm of one of the enemy. A quiet cry and a misaligned twang of a cord followed, shattering the strained hush. With a gentle tug on his horse's reigns, Altair dodged the misfired arrow, the shaft landing harmlessly on its side below him.

The pause as the shock settled in seemed a comfortable eternity to the Assassin, attention already turned to his next move. As the unspoken command of attack rustled through the archers, resulting in a menacing chorus of loosed bowstrings, the white-robed man dove sideways off his horse, flicking into the shelter of the stones that also concealed the main force of the ambush.

The cleft in the cliff face was partially roofed by a rocky overhang, shading its interior with a light gloom. The first shape Altair encountered was downed before any realized that the eagle was amongst the pigeons. He turned sharply to the left, jerking his short blade from the chest of the enemy's white tunic in an unnecessarily flamboyant arc, splattering the others in blood. His dark eyes adjusted to the twilight-like shade, narrowing as he searched for the startled faces of the accursed Templars, those not hidden by red crossed helmets.

Six pairs of frightened eyes stared back at him from familiar faces, half-masked by the black and silver of Teutonics.

The Assassin took a rather staggered step back, startled. The men before him, Ra'id's last, looked upon him with petrified recognition, some still bearing the injuries he had burdened them with in the warehouse. This was not the ambush, but the false one, the decoy-! The realization confused him, throwing his intentions into disarray.

Some, realizing his off-balanced state, rushed him, brandishing long daggers. Altair skipped back several steps, narrowly dodging the blades as he attempted to regain his composure. The third man who attempted to take a lucky strike off him was rewarded with a stab in the throat, the Assassin springing forward as the men unwittingly drew into a single line, easy to handle. Tucking his left arm protectively against his chest to keep it from hampering him, he kicked the guard impaled against his blade backwards, throwing the limp body against its comrades.

In the resulting disarray, he retreated back out of the fissure in the rocky wall, well aware of the archers opening fire on him again as he came back into view. Altair tersely studied the path he had passed through mere minutes ago, trying to catch sight of the true Templar ambush. How could he have missed it? Perhaps Isam had simply been lying and it did not exist at all—

The Assassin was suddenly aware of a deafening quiet, the soldiers who had followed him out of hiding freezing where they stood and the thuk of arrows hitting the ground silencing. As the snakes stilled, Altair realized he could hear the sound of shifting hooves, a considerable number of them, drifting down from the high pass. He noticed too late now that the horses above them, those he had attributed to a passing merchant's caravan, were accompanied by a light clatter of scabbards and chain mail.

Altair's gaze raked the skyline. He retreated away from the high road as he was greeted by the sight of a multitude spanning a considerable length of the high road, white tunics marked by blood red crosses blazing clearly against the gray stone, each mounted knight's and archer's attention turned upon him.

The Assassin bristled, giving a small snarl in response to the scrutiny from the enemy, short blade held ready. He counted no less than a score, an impressive number against the small company they had been expecting. At this thought, Altair glanced up the road, wondering where his brothers were. Hopefully they would approach slowly enough to realize the danger, the soldiers now in full view upon both roads, and would be able to draw back without falling into the trap.

The Master Assassin let out a breath and returned his attention to the enemy about him, composing himself into an outward calm. He had achieved his objective, whether or not he escaped was trivial. As he watched, warily tense, a mahogany red horse detached itself from the faction on the high pass. It moved forward carrying a man of imposing build and presence, their commander no doubt. His bald head was bared, distinctly unlike the heavily helmed ones of his subordinates, his authority commanding a certain measure of respect from the last of the mercenaries who lowered their weapons submissively as they looked up at him.

"Interesting, an eagle who flies so willingly into a cage." The even, lightly accented voice that drifted down to him rang with a natural sureness, proof of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Altair eyed him rather jadedly, unable to see his face clearly with the distance. He wasn't sure why, but the tone seemed familiar. The man turned his steed up the path towards Acre, intent on going around and down to the low pass with a small escort of two other Templars. Just before he disappeared from view, he called down to Ra'id's men, "Hold him for me, brothers, I'd like to meet this one face to face."

The soldiers about him saluted eagerly, dogs wagging their tails for their master. They closed in around the Assassin as the Templars above once again vanished from their line of sight, moving back into hiding after deeming him as an easily dealt with threat. Altair lowered his short blade, standing still as they reached for him, jeering and heartened by the presence of their close by allies. "Come quietly, Assassin," one said confidently, seeming to have forgotten the still visible bruises he had received in the warehouse. "There's no chance you can fight all of us."

Slowly, rather hesitantly, he sheathed his curved dagger, knowing he would need to move quickly if he wanted to escape. A smirk passed over several of the faces around him, assured that he would surrender. "You may have powerful friends," the Assassin interrupted suddenly, his tone cold as he flicked his gaze towards the one who had spoken. "But that will not save you."

With a swift movement, the white-robed one knelt, right hand closing around three of the daggers at his boot and sending them all into the air with a jerk. The narrow, feather-like daggers stabbed lethally into necks and chests, downing exactly three men with cries coiled in blood. Altair did not pause to watch the reaction of the remaining soldiers, instead leaping for his horse that had waited obediently in place by the cliff wall, ever calm despite the flying arrows and battle cries.

Even before he had settled in the saddle, he jabbed his heels into the black stallion's sides, taking off away from Acre. He listened intently, leaning in the saddle to dodge the arrows aimed at his retreating back. His horse, spirited and well rested over the weeks its rider had spent in Acre, galloped eagerly, leaving the ambush behind with ease. However, as the enraged shouts of the mercenaries faded, they were replaced by a thundering of hooves, and Altair chanced a glance back to see who was following him.

The commander's escort was in hot pursuit close behind him, the two knights fanning out to flank the Assassin's horse. Altair gave a low oath, realizing he wouldn't be able to properly ride and fight at the same time, given he had the use of only one hand. Turning forward again and gritting his teeth wordlessly, he moved the reins to his still-paining left, forcing his fingers around the leather strap and gripping it with some difficulty. Luckily the pass was quite smooth and his steed required little direction from him.

As he waited for the dark shapes of the Templars to pass into his peripheral vision, his hand against the remaining throwing knives at his belt, Altair realized he could hear movement ahead, around one of the few bends in the low pass. He cocked his head, trying to tune out the rapid hoof beats below and about him, and reached out with his eagle's senses. With sudden recognition, he realized he had picked up on his brothers' quiet voices, the Masyaf caravan seeming to have halted at the sound of the possibly hostile approach.

It was now or never. With an uncharacteristic cry to startle his enemy, Altair jerked against the reins, pivoting his horse sharply around just as the Templars reached him, taken aback by the abrupt aggression. His stallion's chest and front hooves connected bodily with one of the enemy's steeds, pitching its rider forward and into the shrub-grassed ground. The Assassin growled against the sudden ache in his wrist from the pull of the reins, channeling the pain instead into a savagely thrown dagger. The metal embedded itself neatly through the crossed eye slit of the second knight's helmet, the man toppling off his horse noisily and smashing into the passing cliff face.

As the white-robed man attempted to catch his breath, already turning his snorting horse towards the man he had unseated, he noticed that the sound of approaching hooves had not stopped. Altair looked back, almost too slowly, and saw the distinctive mahogany horse of the commander almost upon him, its rider's broadsword drawn. However, it was not the danger of the bared blade that stilled him, but the face of its wielder. The narrowed eyes of Robert de Sable, Grand Master of the Templars, met his own dark ones coolly, pinning the eagle in place as he raised his sword for a strike.

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Author's Note: I do wonder if it's too awkward to bring him in so late in the story, please let me know what you think.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Finally, the concluding chapter.

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**Assassin's Creed:** _Raptor's Bane_

Chapter 10

The broadsword hacked towards Altair in a wide sweep, cutting off any chance for him to dodge. The Assassin started to reach for his dagger, but knew that the significantly smaller weapon would do little to stop the coming saber and the mountainous strength behind it. Left without options, he jerked his horse in a half-turn, meeting de Sable head on. Just as the steel threatened to rend his head and much of his shoulder from his body, he threw himself forward, jumping into the strike rather than away from it.

The Templar faltered as the distance between him and his target closed abruptly. The next moment, the eagle collided with him forcibly, right elbow driving into the knight's throat and knocking both of them from their horses into the dirt. Altair caught himself with a roll, quickly gaining his feet in a crouch some distance away and turning to face the enemy again. Rather bitterly, he knew that if he still had his hidden blade, de Sable would already be dead. There was some confusion as the two horses that had also slammed into each other whinnied indignantly, rearing and thrashing. Through the raised dust, he caught sight of Robert staggering away from the steeds, dodging flying hooves.

"How dare you, Assassin-!" came the fierce, deep snarl as the commander stalked towards the white robed one, followed closely by the remaining escort Templar who Altair had only managed to unseat earlier. "I was not planning on killing you, but now I'll make sure you learn what happens to those who disrespect me." de Sable flashed a look over at his subordinate, giving him a command with a sweep of an arm. Obediently, and perhaps attempting to make up for being humiliated earlier, the knight approached the Master Assassin confidently, long sword held ready.

Altair shifted, noting the throb in his left arm as he attempted to mask his inability to use it, and threw one of his daggers, aiming for it to pass the side of the knight's head, more to distract than wound. As the Templar sidestepped the flicker of silver, the Assassin lashed out with his curved dagger, snatching it from its sheath with the bought time. However, even he could tell his own strike was slow, weighed down by his steadily gathering exhaustion. Metal clashed and the Assassin turned away the blow, attempting to lessen the impact with a nimble dodge. At this, the Templar's ferocity rose, sensing his opponent's weakness and throwing slashes against his guard in quick succession.

As they fought, for a second time Altair felt someone watching him. However, the presence was not hostile and as he turned, dodging yet another sword strike, he allowed his eyes to slip into his eagle's vision. The comforting aura radiated even through the solid cliff wall and the Assassin realized that his brothers' attention was turned to him, all of them studying the fight with the eyes of their own raptors. They must have been as startled as he to see de Sable, and were no doubt forming a counter attack of their own.

Heartened, just as the mercenaries had been with the presence of their allies, the eagle paused, fatigue pushed aside and eyes fixing confidently upon a single weak point in the knight's defenses. He burst forward, his blade held close against his chest and stabbed out under the enemy's chin. The Templar's final blow never landed, halting centimeters from the Assassin's face as he choked on the dagger in his throat. However, as Altair drew back to free his talons from the body, out of the corner of his eye he caught a sudden shape moving swiftly towards him.

The startled cry of pain never left his lips as de Sable slammed the jeweled hilt of his broadsword against the back of the Assassin's right hand, forcing him to abandon his only blade inside the corpse of the knight. The cross guard of the sword caught him next; driving into his sternum and tossing him easily back against the cliff wall of the high pass. Only instinct saved him from the last stab, he managing to twist out of the way just enough to keep the blood lusting tip from impaling his throat. Robert's blade passed instead through the cloth of his hood near his left ear, pinning him but harmlessly digging into the rocks behind his head.

Altair stilled, breath escaping past gritted teeth as he glared defiantly up at the taller man who was studying him with some amusement. He held his gaze, attempting to keep the Templar's attention averted as his right hand closed on the last throwing knife at his belt. The metal hilt fit comfortably into his palm as de Sable extracted his blade from the cliff for a second attempt. Kicking off against the rocks to narrow the distance between them, the Assassin flicked the tiny dagger up against the older man's throat just as the cold steel of the broadsword touched his own.

Both men froze, a spark of tense anger passing between them. "Defiant to the end," the commander said bitterly, glowering at the slighter man. "Just like all of your brethren. You Assassins should just learn to die quietly."

Here, there were sudden scattered footsteps approaching from either end of the path, sounds that both in the stalemate ignored. Along the low road, the remnants of Ra'id's soldiers finally caught up with their commander, while somewhere on the high road, unseen by all except their fellows, Altair sensed the presence of his brothers. Some had likely scaled the cliff wall, angling for an attack from above. The men of both sides waited tersely, anticipating the result of the clash between the two.

Without a word to acknowledge he had noticed the approach of the other men, Robert jerked away from his enemy with speed surprising to his imposing height. Though he freed Altair from against the cliff, he also moved safely out of range of the throwing blade. The Assassin circled around him as soon as he was able, avoiding keeping the rock wall at his back. He glanced at the silvered hilt of his dagger still protruding from the fallen Templar lying some distance away, knowing it was out of his reach.

de Sable followed his eyes, smirking as he realized the other's disadvantage, and twirled his broadsword mockingly. "Not much you can do with that little knife," he stated, carefully placing himself between Altair and the curved blade. "You may as well surrender." He received no more than a stoic stare in reply; the Assassin mentally going through his options despite already knowing his arsenal had finally run low. Slowly, he swept the throwing blade out to his side and lowered himself in a slight crouch, readying for a charge.

The commander frowned at his bravado, shifting back a bit to prepare to meet him. "Don't make this harder for yourself, Assassin—" His words echoed uselessly against the cliffs as Altair sprang forward, running brazenly towards the taller one, left arm again pressed to his chest out of the way. Thinking this attack to be a final, desperate thrash, de Sable waited for him to approach before lashing out in a diagonal cut to end his misery.

At the last moment, the eagle flared his wings, skidding to a halt and leaning back to dodge the blade as it brushed against his neck. The recovery time for the wide, two-handed sweep was just enough for Altair and he burst forward again, moving behind the Templar's guard. The throwing knife left his hand in a flicker and drove deep into a thin point of de Sable's chain mail, the joint at the back of his right knee. The enemy seemed not to notice the small blade at first, turning smoothly back to slash at the Assassin again, until he attempted to put weight on the injured limb.

de Sable's enraged scream as his leg gave out under him chilled Altair somewhat, he backing away as he watched the Templar fall. He stood still, gasping breath evening to some extent as he felt the triumphant rush. Safely out of range of the fallen man who still attempted to reach him from his prone position, Altair moved to retrieve his curved dagger. Abruptly, an indignant cry filled the air and made him tense. The snakes had reared, shouting to each other to 'protect the commander!' and the Assassin could only look on in some shock as a flurry of thrown needles shone through the air towards him.

From above, there was an answering disturbance of air. Altair heard a pattering like rain as the needles fell harmlessly to the ground, broken and rent, clattering to the dirt along with the silver throwing knives that had intercepted them. He glanced upwards as the storm of daggers continued, burying instead into bodies and screaming faces as his brothers retaliated against the mercenaries. At the center of the five white-robed masters, the eagle recognized the build and stance of Malik, his grim face, as the others', shaded by his hood.

Altair heard a grunt behind him and he turned in time to see de Sable pulling himself onto his horse with difficulty, the beast staggering to the side as it attempted to help its rider support his injured weight. Realizing his prey was getting away, the Assassin snatched his short blade from the corpse at his feet and started towards him, but he stumbled, his eagle spirit flagging and wearied of the almost ceaseless battle over the span of the last few days. Altair halted resignedly and could only throw himself unsteadily out of the way as the red-brown horse tore up the road past him, sharp hooves nearly driving into his still form.

The Templar dodged the last of the Assassins' throwing knives, riding hard away from them and returning to the safety of his men some distance up the path. Hooded faces watched him go, allowing him to leave unhampered after slipping from their reach. Altair panted quietly alone on the low path, feeling his brothers' eyes on him again for a moment before they disappeared from view together, one moment there, and the next out of sight. His dark stallion drew close to him, nudging his shoulder with its nose, reminding him. They were not out of danger yet.

Taking a step back, he sheathed his weapon and mounted the steed shifting impatiently at his side. Robert would rally his troops in a matter of minutes—it was best they hid themselves until the enemy had passed. Fly, strike, flee. This was what they were trained for.

With this in mind, Altair urged his steed forward with a sharp nudge, following his comrades whom he could already hear pulling back the way they had come. Now allowed the time to breathe and realize the weight of the battle, the exhaustion tugged heavily at him, bowing his head close to his horse's ebony furred neck and nearly stripping him of consciousness. Eyes sliding half shut, he clung distractedly onto the reigns and was thus slightly startled as dark shapes closed around him.

He looked up sharply, panic rising from the potential danger, until he recognized the comforting white of two of his fellow Assassins about him. Dark, tired eyes met the sharp ones of an older man on the horse to his right and he recognized his once-teacher dai Ibrahim, a senior Assassin who was likely leading the convoy.

Shaking his head consciously and straightening in the saddle, Altair composed himself, instinctively remembering the punishments he had received as a novice for lacking resolve. The elder said nothing, possibly wordlessly assessing if he was fit enough to join the convoy, his narrowed eyes ranged over the younger one's injuries as their horses continued through the valley. But he seemed to deem him capable after a few seconds of scrutiny, turning away and pulling ahead without a word. Behind him, the Master Assassin breathed something of a sigh of relief.

It only took a few moments of riding before all the Assassins converged once again, moving as one out of the confines of the pass. Ibrahim accounted for the seven brothers around him, all of whom were looking to him expectantly, and raised a hand in a command, flicking it outwards. Recognizing the signal, the brothers dispersed in neat formation, riding in four different directions in close pairs to scatter themselves across the Kingdom.

Altair had been about to follow the reverend dai, the one closest, until he noticed a white mare draw up to him from the other side, its rider beckoning. He looked over to meet Malik's inscrutable face and after a breath's hesitation, tailed after him obediently, moving east along the mountainside. It was not long before their comrades disappeared from view, taking flight into the winds.

The two slowed their steeds a safe distance from the pass, heading for the shelter of an abandoned sentry point, one of the many once active bases of operation of the Crusaders. The wood-post walls of the small courtyard were drooping and cracked from neglect, but they would provide enough cover for the Assassins. They dismounted after concealing themselves under the tall archer look out set against the wall, keeping out of sight of the highway.

"You lied to me."

Altair looked up from where he was leashing his steed to a short fence and met his brother's accusing gaze calmly, too weary to deny anything. "Yes. But it was for the good of the Brotherhood— and all I said was that I would stay at the Bureau, not that I wouldn't follow you."

Malik scowled, dropping into a sit with his back to the wall of timbers impaled into the ground. "A half truth is just as bad as a lie. Besides, you didn't need to come; we could have dealt with both of those ambushes ourselves. Why must you insist putting your neck on the line just to play the hero? Honestly, if dai Ibrahim hadn't ordered us to bail you out, I would have let you learn your lesson."

The Master Assassin settled on the grass across from him, leaning on one of the four supporting stilts of the elevated viewpoint. "I didn't do it to just 'play the hero.' I did not want the Brotherhood to be compromised, that's all. I don't care how you see me, but at least know that I adhere to the Creed."

"…For now," the other said rather huffily, the anger dissipating somewhat, turning instead to annoyance. "If you persist on bending the tenets to your own intentions like this, you'll end up breaking them some day."

"Perhaps. But not yet," Altair said with a small smirk, drawing his legs up to his chest and resting his injured arm upon them. In the gentle silence that followed, he sighed quietly, eyes half lidded but resisting the urge to rest. Malik cocked his head at him, frowning. "If you need to sleep, just say so, brother. I have no problem taking the first watch."

The younger Assassin glared at him impatiently. "You have been in motion just as long as I have, Malik, I'm sure you're just as exhausted. It would be safer for both of us to stay awake until we can rejoin the caravan."

"That may be so, but I am still in much better shape than you right now." At the irritated glare he received for this, the older Assassin shook his head exasperatedly. "We've been over this, Altair. Admitting your limitations is not a sign of weakness. Even eagles need to roost some time."

The other nodded slowly, distracted, already falling into the shades of sleep despite his earlier stubbornness. His pride no longer hampered him, he remembering that his mission had finally been completed. This reassured him almost more than safety, more than the thought that the Templars would not be able to find them here. Thus, for the first time in what seemed an age, Altair slept, his eagle folding its wings and shuttering its eyes to the world.

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Author's Note: Thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing. I really enjoyed writing for Assassin's Creed, so I should start another story on it as soon as I'm inspired. If any of you have a suggestion for the next fic, don't hesitate to drop a review


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